some wild and necessary hunger
by hoidn
Summary: The A/O AU that nobody asked for.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** if you don't know what a/b/o or knotting is, please consider consulting fanlore before getting on this ride. no refunds will be given if you don't enjoy it. the science in this fic is real but cobbled together like a conceptual frankensteinian monster, so if anyone reading this is a science-type person, please forgive me.

the title comes from the poem 'lunar moth.' dear carl phillips, i am so sorry.

* * *

 _The physiological and psychological stresses of estrus cannot be overstated. For many people with Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion Omega Type, it is a phase marked by extremes of suffering and distress for which there is little to no relief._

 _—Dr. Nisreen Waelsch, ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion_

. . .

It feels a lot like the flu at first. Aching muscles, a slight fever, and a lower-than-usual tolerance for people in general all gnaw at the edges of Vic's awareness for a couple of days when Walt comes back to work. After one of his particularly dickish displays, she has the spiteful thought that he probably gave it to her. He came back just to be an asshole and get her sick on purpose.

When the symptoms worsen beyond her ability to ignore, she tries to kill whatever it is with aspirin and a handful of chalky vitamin C tablets from a bottle she didn't even remember she had. They're out of date but she figures they're worth a shot.

It might be the placebo effect, but she does find that the worst of her fever and aches ease for a while, so she doesn't care too much about the reason why. Still, by the time she's finished writing up her report on the Delia Garrett murder, Vic's feeling flushed and fuzzy-headed, worse than before.

Her shift is long over and for the first time in weeks there's no reason to feel guilty about leaving the station. She isn't in charge anymore.

Light spills from under Walt's closed door when she glances down the hallway. Not that long ago she would've used the excuse of letting him know she was heading out to squeeze in a few more minutes of his company. Tonight she doesn't even bother to say goodbye. There's a good chance that if she has to look at his face one more time she might just go ahead and punch him.

Getting outside into the cool air makes her feel better. She drives to Cady's with the windows rolled down and the biting wind is like heaven on her skin. The place is dark when she arrives, Cady's car missing from the driveway. Vic parks on the street as usual and has to really work to get up the steps and into the house. She doesn't bother turning on any lights, just heads straight for her room and starts stripping off her clothes the second the door's shut. In her tank top and underwear, she collapses into bed, hoping sleep will kick whatever it is out of her system.

. . .

She wakes in the pitch dark, already knowing something is very wrong.

Fever is burning her up from the inside. Vic feels like she's standing under the blazing midday sun at the height of summer. Something like an itch has burrowed its way into every nerve ending, every sensitive place she has. Her skin can barely stand the touch of her clothes or the sheets. When she gets out of bed she stumbles and almost falls, disoriented and clumsy. Trying to switch on the bedside lamp only succeeds in knocking it over.

Groping through layers of shadows, driven by the need to cool down, she manages to open her door. The porch light shining through the front windows is enough for her to make her way to the bathroom. She steps straight into the shower and turns the cold water on as hard as it will go. The spray strafes her skin like tiny, icy bullets, but she welcomes the pain. It spears through the fuzz and static in her head, allowing her some space to think.

For a few minutes Vic just stands there, bent nearly double with dizziness. Gradually the feeling that she's being smothered eases and she can take deeper breaths. When she's able to hold herself upright, she lifts her face and opens her mouth to the water, drinking what she can and letting the rest dribble away.

She's so hot, still, underneath the relief of the spray. What had felt like an itch before is now more of a restless wanting. Like something's missing deep below her skin. She runs her fingers over the rigid bumps of gooseflesh on her arms and feels a strange pang echo inside her. It opens into a corrosive emptiness that hollows her out. All that's left is a terrible yearning for something she can't name.

Without knowing why, Vic digs her nails into her flesh. The bite calms her a little, so she does it again, and then again, and keeps going. But it's like scratching at a real itch: the relief is only temporary. She digs and the problem gets worse. She digs.

Time is meaningless until her muscles begin to cramp from the cold. She's shivering and covered with red crescent-shaped marks from her nails, some of which are deep enough to bleed. The thin trickles of red turn pink as they flow downstream from her skin to the shower floor.

Frightened and confused, Vic begins to cry.

Her thoughts are incoherent and panicked. She doesn't remember doing this to herself. Every inch of her body aches because she needs _something_ , but she doesn't know what it is. A deep and primal certainty tells her that If she goes much longer without it, she'll die.

Though the belief might be irrational, Vic knows she has to get help. Her head's all mixed up and and she's sick. She needs help. But she can't fucking _think_. She needs to go somewhere to get help, go to someone, someone who'll help her. She needs to go.

As soon as she turns off the cold water the fever roars up and she's burning again. Shaking and unsteady, she leans her forehead against the cold wall of the shower. It feels so good that she presses first one cheek and then the other to the tile, then as much of the front of her body as she can manage.

Her wet skin on the wet tile creates an almost frictionless slide. In a daze, she starts rubbing herself against the wall. Her breasts are heavy and tender; her nipples are painfully hard. Vic reaches up to pinch one, squeezing her thighs together, and feels almost nothing. Even sliding her fingers down to rub her clit at the same time barely registers.

She's so swollen and wet and _aching_ that she wants to scream. But the more she tries, the less sensation she feels. Her body is primed for something she can't give it. Huge and feral, the emptiness inside her eclipses desire, eclipses lust. It's ready to split her skin, crush her bones, rend her flesh to get satisfaction.

She needs somebody to help her, to take care of her. Someone to make her better, to keep her safe. Someone who can give her what she needs.

Someone who can save her.

[TBC]

* * *

 **notes:** *gasp* CAN YOU GUESS WHO IT WILL BE? okay, but more seriously, this is gonna get really filthy in a few chapters. i'll be upping the rating when the time comes (*tee hee*) and adding tags as they become applicable. for your own peace of mind, please take heed. what has once been seen cannot be unseen, etc.

the 'quotes' appearing at the beginning of each chapter are fictional. my fake book author's name is half Nisreen El-Hashemite and half Salome Gluecksohn-Waelsch, both real geneticists.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** oops, i forgot to mention in chapter 1 that for my own nefarious purposes vic's eviction takes place prior to the end of 4x04, which is when this fic begins. i need her to be living at cady's because of important narrative reasons. yes, that is definitely why.

* * *

 _It was Mary F. Lyon's pivotal work on X-inactivation that lead the way to discovering the exact mechanism governing the expression of the Omega phenotype. Subsequent work by Auerbach, Hsu, Volhard, et al., published in 2014, demonstrates definitively that Omega Type X chromosomes are not only inverted, as in Alpha Type, but also heterozygous, with the mutated allele contained on the activated X chromosome. The requirement of a second mutation for the expression of the Omega phenotype accounts for the significantly reduced frequency of its occurrence compared to the Alpha phenotype._

 _—Dr. Nisreen Waelsch,_ _ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion_

. . .

The scent hits him like a blow when he opens the door.

It's rich and heady and it awakens some long-slumbering part of his brain with instant recognition.

Omega in heat.

Walt inhales deeply, nostrils flaring to get more of it into his lungs. It flows luxuriously through his blood like the melody of a siren's song, shutting down his awareness of anything but her. It's consuming, blotting out reason, and screaming at him to drag Vic inside and claim her as his.

She says something that he scarcely hears through the animal roar of his lust. He's got his hands wrapped around her arms without any thought at all, pulling her into him. From up close he watches her eyes roll back in her head and her body crumple. It's only his grip that saves her from hitting the bare wooden floorboards at his feet.

Her sudden collapse shocks him into a heightened state of clarity. All he knows now is that something's wrong and he has to take care of her. He has to help her.

That's what she'd said, he realizes. _Help me, Walt._

Carrying her to the Bronco, he finally notices that her hair and clothes are wet. In the yellow interior light the marks all over her skin look like some kind of disease. Some are even crusted with dried blood.

He gets her buckled in and races back to the cabin propelled by a surge of fear. It's hard to think past the impulses warring in his head but he makes sure he's fully dressed despite how constrictive his clothes feel. He grabs the blanket from the couch and at the last minute goes back for his rifle, just in case. He's got to keep her safe.

The drive to Durant Regional is a blur. Vic's scent fills the Bronco and his body is eager to respond. Only the sight of her limp and still underneath the blanket he's laid over her stops him from giving in to the desperate need to touch her.

At the hospital there are too many strangers; they're all trying to take her from him. He cradles her close and won't let them, making wordless sounds of warning any time someone gets too close.

When Doc Weston appears, Walt's filled with relief. The doctor is okay. They can trust him. He leads the way to a small exam room and that's better, quiet, just them. Walt lays Vic gently on the bed and stands between her and the door, wary and alert.

The sting of something sharp piercing the meat of his bicep has him whirling around to find Weston backing away with a syringe in one hand. Enraged at the betrayal, Walt lunges for his attacker. Flimsy things get in his way and he bats them aside, intent on removing this threat. But between one step and the next everything shifts. Like a fog dispersed by a stiff wind, he feels the cloud in his brain dissipate.

"Sheriff, are you with me?" Weston asks.

Walt blinks, taking in his surroundings. He's looming over the doctor, who's backed into a corner. Pieces of medical equipment are littered around the sides of the room. Weston had been trying to protect himself until the drug kicked in, Walt realizes.

Blowing out a slow breath, he lowers himself shakily into a chair. "I was ready to kill you."

"Rut brain," says the doctor conversationally, as if Walt hadn't just admitted to murderous intent. "An omega in heat produces aldehydes that bind to unique receptors in an alpha's brain and shut down higher functions in the frontal lobe. And that's just for starters. The net effect is a total focus on keeping the omega safe until the alpha can breed her, and that means taking out threats when necessary. I've read about it, but I've never seen it up close until now. You make a formidable predator, Sheriff."

Weston's grinning but Walt feels sick with shame. "I'm sorry, Doc."

His apology is dismissed with a wave. "How are you feeling now?"

"Um, better. It's still there but not so... much."

"That shot won't mask the heat-scent completely, but it will block the receptors of those particular aldehydes enough that you can think clearly for a few hours. As a side effect, some things might not smell quite right. That'll pass."

"Okay."

"Can you tell me what happened to Deputy Moretti?"

"She just showed up at my cabin. I opened the door and that smell..." Walt's eyes are drawn to where Vic lies on the exam bed. "She said, 'Help me,' and then she collapsed. I brought her straight here."

"She drove herself to your place?"

"Yes."

"How did she look when you saw her?" Weston pulls back the blanket covering Vic and begins making notes.

Walt rubs at the center of his forehead, trying to massage his memory into cooperating. "Uh, it's a little fuzzy. She was wet, at least her hair and her clothes were. That's why I got the blanket. And, um, I think maybe her face was flushed. She also had all those marks on her," he says, gesturing. "Did she do that on her own?"

"They appear to be self-inflicted, yes."

"Why would she hurt herself like that?"

Weston looks up and considers him. "Do you want the medical explanation or the short version?" He shakes his head at Walt's raised eyebrow. "Short version it is. Essentially her system is being overwhelmed by the change in her body chemistry and this is her version of trying to chew her leg off to get out of the trap."

Walt feels his face contort in horror.

"It's comparatively mild, Sheriff. The swelling will be gone by tomorrow and the broken skin will heal in a day or two. Self-harm is not uncommon, especially during a first heat. Neither is fainting." Weston pauses and his face gentles into compassion. "I know it seems extreme but it's a fairly normal response to what Deputy Moretti is going through. This isn't going to be easy on either of you, but I promise that she'll be all right."

It takes Walt a moment to speak past the hard knot of fear in his throat. "Okay."

"Did you see her earlier today or yesterday? Did you notice anything different about her?"

"We've been working on an investigation since I came back. I thought I only noticed it because I hadn't seen her for a while, but the way she smells... Not bad, but, uh, different somehow, um, stronger."

"Okay. Have you noticed any changes in yourself, recently? Increasing feelings of aggression or jealousy, sexual arousal?"

Hot prickles shoot up Walt's neck and into his cheeks.

"It's part of a normal biological process, Sheriff. I'm not going to judge you for it."

He scrubs his hands over his face. "Yes. All of it."

"How long?"

"Uh, two days. Maybe three."

"All right." Weston makes a final notation on the chart and sets down the clipboard. "I'll do a physical exam on Deputy Moretti now, take some blood for testing, and we'll see where we are when we get the results."

"Sure."

As the doctor reaches for Vic on the bed, Walt finds himself rising out of his chair unthinkingly. Even now, with the effects of her scent tempered by whatever was in that syringe, there's a growling, pacing part of him that's demanding to be close to her, to touch her, to not let anyone else near. It's snarling at the insult of someone else's hands all over _his_ omega.

"Well I guess that answers the question of whether or not you want to wait outside while I do this."

Embarrassed, Walt sits back down. "Sorry."

His second apology is waved away like the first. "Normal biological process. Although if you start to feel the urge to kill me again, I'd appreciate a heads-up so I can make a run for it."

Walt manages a brief laugh at the doctor's attempt at humor. He watches Weston move around Vic's bed, taking her temperature, pulse, blood pressure, examining her pupils, listening to her breathe. It's a sign of how dulled his brain is that something occurs to him only when the doctor is drawing her blood.

"You already knew," he says.

"About her rare genetic makeup? Yes."

"You should've told me, Doc."

"Should I have told Deputy Moretti about your rare genetic makeup as well? Medical information is confidential unless the safety of my patient is in danger or she gives me explicit permission to divulge it. Which she did not do."

Weston says it in such a dry, pointed way that Walt feels exactly as ridiculous as he should. "Right. Of course."

"You've never been through this before, I take it."

"No."

"Not surprising given its rarity these days."

"Yeah."

"I'll put a rush on the blood work but it'll be a while before I get the results. Try to take it easy. Your endocrine system is going through almost as much as hers is right now. It's going to be rough for a while."

"Thanks, Doc."

Weston leaves the room and Walt forces himself to remain seated and not go over to the bed like he wants to. He's read about the altered mental states induced by heat but never comprehended the sheer enormity of their turmoil. How could he have understood the struggle to retain rational control over the part of himself urging him to lie down with Vic and guard her, curl around her and bury his face at her neck where her scent is strongest, wake her with his mouth and his hands until she's writhing and begging for his knot, give her what she needs, what they both need, take her, make her his?

With a strangled sound, he stands up and walks to the farthest wall, pressing his forehead against it and bracing himself with his hands. The thoughts running through his mind appall him and yet his dick is hard and he's panting with excitement. He has to leave but he can't; he's trapped by competing desires and he knows that at some point his latent instincts will be so powerful they'll obliterate everything else.

There's a small sink in the room, so he splashes some cold water on his face and neck, cups his hands under the faucet to drink. It's too dangerous for him to sit and do nothing, so he paces, watchful and alert, his eyes flicking between Vic and the door. After a time, the rhythm begins to soothe the restless thing inhabiting him, lulling it into a kind of trance.

He still greets Doc Weston's return with relief.

"How is she?"

"Mildly dehydrated but apart from that she's fine. Heat is putting an enormous amount of stress on her body and that's most likely why she collapsed. But she's strong and healthy so I don't see any reason why she can't be released in the morning. I'll put her on a saline drip for a few hours to rehydrate her."

"She can just go home?" Walt asks, incredulous.

"That's up to Deputy Moretti, but there's really nothing we can do for her here." Weston hesitates and seems to be considering something. "Obviously, I'll need to talk to her when she wakes up, and the arrangements will be up to her, but you should know how important it is that she not be left on her own. She's very vulnerable right now and may not be capable of keeping herself safe. Disorientation and even delirium are common in unmated omegas. As you've seen, self-harm is a danger, but she could also injure herself without realizing it. There have been cases of heat fugue where the patient has simply wandered off." He pauses again before adding, "There have also been cases of sexual assault."

Walt's stomach roils at the idea of Vic alone and preyed upon, unable to defend herself. "I'll stay with her. If she wants me to," he amends, because he won't force her into anything, though the animal part of him howls at the thought of being separated.

"If you do, make sure she gets plenty of fluids to keep her hydrated, and aspirin or acetaminophen to reduce her fever. You'll need to encourage her to eat even if she's not hungry because her body is consuming calories at an accelerated rate. I'll give her a prescription for a mild sedative which may help to take the edge off her symptoms but whether she chooses to take it is up to her. It doesn't work for everyone."

"That's all? There's nothing else you can do?"

"Unfortunately there isn't. In cases like these, when the suppression meds fail, the only options are waiting it out or doing what biology demands."

Excitement flares again, tangled up with disgust. "You mean that, uh, we should..."

The doctor looks like he wants to roll his eyes. "Her body has gone into heat. Your body is responding to that. The process has a natural conclusion. It's for the two of you to determine which course is best for you both."

Walt clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, staring at the floor. "How long will it last?"

"I can't answer that. The period will be shorter if she's mated but even then there's no way to know. In general heats last several days, longer if they're left to resolve on their own. I can tell you that if it goes on for more than a week, she'll be placed into an induced coma until it's over. The prolonged stress on the body can lead to organ failure or stroke."

An image of Vic pale and hooked to machines to stop her body from burning itself up invades Walt's mind, making terror twist in his gut. "If we decided on the, uh, the natural conclusion, would that happen?"

"No."

"But there's the possibility of some kind of, um, chemical attachment?"

"I can't claim to be an expert, Sheriff, but if you're worried about forming a pair bond, I think that horse has already left the barn."

Startled, Walt looks up. "What do you mean?"

"I've treated Deputy Moretti in a number of extreme situations. She's a smart, competent woman who knows how to handle herself under duress." Weston shrugs. "I'm just saying that she didn't drive herself to the hospital. She drove herself to you."

[TBC]

* * *

 **notes:** Mary F. Lyons did, indeed, discover x-inactivation in 1961, and it is sometimes referred to as lyonization in her honour. Auerbach, Hsu, and Volhard are the names of real female geneticists. their use is purely for the sake of lending veracity to my fake book about my made up science and is not intended to be representative of them or their work, or in any way factual.


	3. Chapter 3

_The differences between the prostaglandins produced by Alpha Type males and those produced by other males become significant during estrus. Alpha Type prostaglandins act in reducing production of the hormones specific to Omega Type. In effect, Alpha Type semen is a kind of biological 'off-switch' for estrus in sufficient quantities. Conversely, the prostaglandins in the semen of other males may antagonise the endocrine system of Omega Type, leading to increased hormone production, and thus prolonging and intensifying the phase. Non-Alpha Type prostaglandins have also been shown to provoke immunological responses ranging from mild rashes to severe anaphylaxis in some Omega Type patients during estrus._

 _—Dr. Nisreen Waelsch,_ _ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion_

. . .

Vic surfaces into awareness by degrees. Her brain's groping for memory and explanation before her consciousness fully solidifies. The sounds and smells surrounding her are wrong. Her bed feels wrong; her body feels wrong. Groggy and disoriented, she seems to linger in some state of not-awake for a long time.

What greets her when she finally opens her eyes isn't what she's expecting.

"Morning, Deputy. How do you feel?"

She blinks at Doctor Weston for a few seconds, registering the pale walls and the thinly padded mattress underneath her. Obviously she got herself to the hospital successfully; she just has no memory of it.

Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, Vic takes an internal inventory. "Um, better than last night. What the hell have I got?"

"Well, the good news is that you're not sick."

"Okay," she says slowly. "What's the bad news?"

"To use the vernacular, you're in heat."

"That's impossible. I always get my shots on time."

"Unfortunately, our bodies sometimes refuse to cooperate with science. Your lab results show that you're experiencing a full estrus phase despite the suppression medication."

"Fuck," Vic whispers, staring at the ceiling without seeing it. Her mind feels like a hamster running on one of those little wheels that goes around and around and ends up nowhere. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

At her side, Weston pulls up a chair and sits. "That's what I'm here to talk about. Can you tell me what you remember? When did the first symptoms appear?"

She pushes herself into a sitting position and absently rubs the back of her left hand. The hygiene pad underneath her crinkles with her movements. "Maybe three days ago. I thought I was coming down with a cold or something, but by the end of yesterday I felt so bad I just passed out in bed after I got home. When I woke up, I..." She frowns, trying to remember. "It's all blurry."

He looks up from the notes he's taking. "You've got a lot of very powerful hormones creating havoc in your blood right now. Don't worry if your memory is missing a few pieces."

Blowing out a breath, she nods. "I woke up when it was still dark. I don't remember even looking at the time but it was late. I was so hot and... It sounds stupid but it felt like I was dying. I got in the shower and stayed under the cold water as long as I could. As soon as I turned it off, the fever came right back. All I could think was that I had to go somewhere and get help. Then I think I was driving and..." A kind of horror fills her as the memory slides into place. "Holy shit. Walt. I went to his cabin."

Weston nods. "He brought you here after you collapsed on his doorstep."

Squeezing her eyes shut, she presses the heels of her hands against them until fireworks light up inside her eyelids. "Does he know? About what's wrong with me?"

"Yes."

"Jesus."

"The reason he knows, Deputy, is that his biology is complementary to yours."

Vic lifts her head, blinking the spots from her eyes. "What?"

"You and the sheriff have the same rare genetic makeup. He's an alpha to your omega."

She stares at Weston in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"When you showed up at his door, your heat sent him into rut."

Nausea rises high up in her throat. For a second Vic thinks she's really going to puke, but then it passes and she takes a shaky breath. The doctor appears at her elbow with a paper cup of water, telling her to sip it slowly.

"I never wanted anyone to know," she says when the cup is empty and she's picking at its waxy edges. "Especially not him."

"I understand that. And I'm sorry the decision's been taken away from you. But now we need to focus on getting you through this."

"What do you mean? I thought it was basically over. Isn't that why I feel better?"

Weston shakes his head. "You feel better because you've had some rest and I've given you a cocktail of medications to calm your symptoms. The effects are only temporary."

"So can't you just give me more?"

"I'm afraid their effectiveness decreases significantly with use. Sometimes a second dose has no effect at all."

Panic engulfs her. She's stuck in this out-of-control body with no way out and no way to fight. The terrible fever and gnawing emptiness are still alive inside her, muffled for now, but waiting. Biding their time. "So I'll go back to feeling how I felt before?"

"Yes."

"How long will it last?"

"Normal heats can last anywhere from forty-eight hours to five days. Since this is your first, we have no baseline to compare it to. There's just no way to know."

Vic draws her knees to her chest and lays her head on top of them. It's too much. All of it's too much. She doesn't know where to begin to think it through.

A tear rolls off her nose and splats onto the blanket covering her legs. For the first time she really looks at it. It's not a hospital issue blanket; it's Walt's. She rubs her thumb over the little damp spot and sniffles. It even smells like him. Without thinking, she lifts it to her nose and inhales. Some warm, dreamy feeling invades her, making her tingle all over. It's a good smell, a safe smell, dizzying. A hot, needy part of her wants to roll around in it until it covers her completely. Vic feels herself growing wet as she breathes and breathes and breathes.

"Deputy?" calls a far-away voice.

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you were all right."

Her head shoots up and she finds Weston studying her with mild concern. He must know, she realizes; what's happening must be written all over her like a neon sign.

Shame roars in and she shoves the blanket away. "I'm fine."

"Would you like some more water?"

"Um, yes. Please."

Anything to distract her from the embarrassment of getting horny off sniffing a fucking blanket. She scrapes her hands on the pad underneath her, trying to wipe away the scent, but it's embedded in her skin. How hadn't she noticed it before?

"Thanks," she says, when Weston hands her another tiny cup. The first one lies crumpled and picked apart on the bed next to her. Now she'll have a matched set. "Why this is happening to me? Why now?"

The doctor taps a pen on his clipboard thoughtfully. "Stress and trauma can play havoc with your hormones, and you've been through a lot of both lately. It could be that the dosage of your last suppressor shot was a little off, or that it didn't properly metabolize. You also can't discount your constant proximity to an adult alpha male." Spreading his hands, he shrugs. "Or it could be some combination of all those factors. There's no real way to know exactly why synthetic measures fail. Sometimes we just have to chalk it up to nature liking to get its own way."

"Right." With nothing to fight against, and no explanation, Vic's left feeling drained and defeated. "So what happens now?"

"You have a couple of options, but the main priority is your safety. You shouldn't be on your own through this."

"Otherwise I might drive to somebody's house in the middle of the night without knowing what I'm doing?"

Weston's lips twist wryly. "If there's someone you can stay with, or someone who can stay with you, you can hunker down and wait it out. The sheriff has offered to be that someone if you're willing."

The thought of Walt seeing her like this — seeing her like this some more, she corrects herself — and having to take care of her when she can't is mortifying. But for the feral thing inside her, the idea of having an alpha close, this alpha whose scent is so intoxicating, so delicious, is powerfully exciting. Vic can feel her body turning loose and liquid against her will.

She wants to throw up.

Oblivious, Weston continues. "Alternatively, there's a clinic in Denver with therapists trained to deal with situations like this. I could make a few calls."

"No," she says, recoiling at the idea of a bunch of strangers witnessing her shame. Walt would be bad enough, but at least she knows him. At least she trusts him.

 _And you want him,_ purrs a silky voice inside her.

Vic shakes her head to dislodge it. "What else?" she asks Weston.

"Well, there's always the natural conclusion."

"Which is what?"

"Mate with an alpha."

Those four words flip some kind of switch inside her. In an instant, her stomach is free-falling like a roller coaster drop. Breathless, elated, dizzy, she can see— _feel_ —how good it would be. A deep spasm rocks her — not an orgasm but near enough to be humiliating. In defiance, Vic digs her nails into her arm.

Her own body has betrayed her. It's made her into this _thing_ she's never wanted to be: weak, needy, nothing but a helpless fucktoy. And the worst part is that even as disgusted as she tells herself she feels, as hard as she's trying to maintain that, deep down the thought of her alpha fucking her through her heat, covering her and knotting her and claiming her, is like a drug.

That primal part of her is pushing up from within and clawing at her control. It's muted now, but it's hungry, and it _wants_ , and it will have its way. It doesn't care about consequences. A time will come when she won't be strong enough to resist.

"Does it have to be an alpha? Couldn't I just—"

Weston is shaking his head before she can finish the sentence. "Even with a condom, intercourse with someone who isn't an alpha tends to make the situation worse. There's a possibility that, out of frustration at not having your needs met, you may become violent."

Trapped and desperate and afraid, Vic can't stop the tears that run down her cheeks any more than she could stop the rain.

"I'm sorry, Deputy. I really am." Weston's voice is full of sympathy. He stands and gives her arm a brief squeeze. "I wish there was more I could do."

She tries to smile because he's being kind, though the smile probably looks more like a grimace.

"Take some time. I have other patients to see but I'll be back in a little while and we can talk more before you're discharged."

"Thanks," she manages.

"The sheriff asked to see you when you're ready. Would you like me to tell him to wait?"

Of course Walt is here. He's the last person she wants to see. He's the only one she wants to see.

"Is it, um, safe? If we're together, won't we..." _Fuck like bunnies_ is the phrase that comes to mind but she's having trouble getting it out.

"I've given him something to alleviate his symptoms too. You're both still experiencing the effects of the heat but they're diminished enough that you shouldn't have a problem being in the same room."

Vic nods slowly. "Okay."

"I'll send him in."

Nervous and on edge, she tries to smooth her hair before retying her ponytail. The only clothes she has on are a pair of shorts and a tank top, not even underwear or a bra; she can't remember if she was wearing shoes last night, or if she had her phone. The not-knowing makes her feel as naked as her lack of clothing.

It's seems surreal that only yesterday she was a competent professional working on a murder investigation. Now none of her training and experience is worth a damn. Yesterday, Walt was acting like a jackass and she could have cheerfully strangled him. Now her anger doesn't matter because he's all she's got.

There's a soft knock, then the door opens slowly and he steps in. Even from across the room he smells incredible. Everything in her goes hot and liquid at the same time and she has to close her eyes for a moment to get a grip.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi."

"How're you feeling?"

She shrugs. "Okay. But I hear it's only temporary."

He offers her a rueful smile.

It's a small room, but it still feels awkward for them to be on opposite sides, like they're afraid of each other. Vic gestures to the chair Weston left behind. "You want to sit down?"

Walt hesitates for a second and then walks over and folds himself into it.

"I'm sorry about last night," she tells him, "getting you into this."

"It's not your fault, Vic. You don't need to be sorry."

"Yeah, well, even so..."

This close, his scent is stronger and she has the urge to lean over and press her face against his neck. It's worse when she's looking at him, so she switches her attention to picking apart the second tiny cup now that it's empty. Her bodily awareness of Walt's presence remains stubbornly on high alert.

From the corner of her eye, she sees him lean forward and rest his elbows on his knees.

"Have you talked to the doctor about what you want to do?"

"He told me about my options."

"Okay."

"They kind of suck."

"Uh huh."

She lets her gaze flick to his for just an instant. "I hear you offered to be my babysitter, since I can't be trusted on my own."

"Only if you want me to."

The sad truth is that even if she didn't there isn't anybody else she can ask. "I just want to get through it. I don't want to..." She can't make herself say _I don't want to fuck you_ because the truth is she does, but it's much more complicated than that.

"I understand," Walt says softly.

Vic forces herself to meet his eyes again. The connection is almost a palpable thing pulling between them, made of longing and desire and need. Her anger has evaporated like steam, boiled away in the fiery chain reaction of their combined biologies. No wonder it's called heat, she thinks. It's burning them both alive.

"Are you sure?" she says. "I know it's a lot to ask."

"I'm sure."

"What about work?"

"Don't worry about that. I'll call Ruby. We'll figure something out."

She fidgets with the paper cup confetti she's made. "You won't tell her why I—"

"No. I wouldn't do that, Vic. This is nobody's business but ours."

A little ache creeps up under her ribs. She nods.

Walt sits back and rubs his palms against his jeans. "Are you ready to get out of here?"

"Yeah."

He stands up and her breath catches. For a long, charged moment they stare at each other, that cord between them electric. Finally, in a rough voice, he says, "I'll get the doc."

When the door shuts behind him, Vic flops back on the bed and covers her face with her hands.

For the first time in years, she prays.

[TBC]

* * *

 **notes:** the speediness of chapter 2 was a surprise to me, too. i don't know what the rest will be like to revise, but rest assured, i won't leave anyone hanging. a complete first draft of the whole thing is already written. so while i really do appreciate the enthusiasm for this fic, please don't ask me to write/post more quickly. i promise i'm doing the best i can.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** and now we arrive at the reason why this document is saved as "alpha omega seriously wtf" on my hard drive. please note the rating change!

* * *

 _For like the beasts in the fields and the waters, like the birds in the sky, know that these too are creatures of the Lord. He hath made them according to their kinds and from Him they seek their meat in due season._

 _Psalm 104_

. . .

It's nearly noon when Walt opens his eyes and finds himself on his couch. The long span of the night before comes to him in jumbled images, as unreal as a dream but for the traces of Vic he sees scattered about the cabin. There's her pair of shoes by the door, a prescription bottle on the coffee table, and a half empty glass of water sitting next to it.

He feels muzzy-headed, still stuck in a drowsy in-between state, and terribly thirsty as he gets up and makes his way into the kitchen. Maybe he's coming down with something. He drinks a glass of cold water and registers the sound of the shower running. He stumbles outside to take a leak.

The fresh air of the porch is like a shot of pure oxygen. Walt's head clears enough to bring the details of last night and early this morning into sharp focus. Vic had been silent on the drive home from the hospital, he remembers, sitting huddled against the passenger door and turned in on herself. Unhappiness had radiated from her so strongly that he'd reached to comfort her without thinking. She'd flinched away. The rejection had stung but it was a stark reminder of how careful he'd have to be to remain vigilant for her sake.

Now her heat is back at full strength and he's responding to it. The drugs aren't helping anymore. The two of them are on their own.

Walt gives himself a few more minutes in the bracing air after he empties his bladder. The only thing that really matters is keeping Vic safe, he reminds himself. All he has to do is hold on to that.

Walking back into the cabin, he closes the door behind him and does something he's rarely ever done before: he locks it. Vic's heat-scent is already winding a sinuous passage through his lungs and into his blood, making him feel woozy for a moment. He has to lean back against the door and breathe shallowly until the room stops spinning.

With every breath he takes in her scent; with every breath he wants her.

The open bedroom door beckons him. It's aglow with early afternoon sunlight, as golden as her hair. Her pretty hair. He thinks of it spread out across his pillow. She'd been reluctant to take the bed but he'd insisted. It felt important that she have some privacy, and he'd foolishly thought that putting a physical barrier between them might do some good. The door had been shut for only a few minutes before he began pacing anxiously in front of it. Not being able to see her had triggered a simmering kind of desperation in him. It built gradually until ripping the door off its hinges had been all he could think about.

Vic had wrenched it open herself, with a look on her face that he knew was a mirror to his own. They hadn't tried to close it again.

Walt knows she's in there, through one doorway and on the other side of another. The shower's still running. He means to walk to the kitchen but instead finds himself veering left. Vic's scent grows stronger in this direction, a lure so potent it's impossible to resist. If only she didn't smell so good, he thinks helplessly. If only it didn't feel so right to have her inside him, remaking him the way he's meant to be.

His heart's pumping hard, turning his lungs into a bellows, and rushing the blood through his veins. It swells and stiffens his dick in readiness to give her what she needs.

 _But it's not what she wants._

The thought seems weighty and solid floating there at the top of the fragments and scatters left in his mind. Walt tries to hold on to it, but it's just as slippery as all the rest.

He looks out the window. He looks back at the open bedroom door. In the shower, water is falling like the sky.

Somehow he's at the piano. His fingers play a few jarring, discordant notes. Primal messages written deep into his bones are urging him on. Why is he resisting? Instinct tells him to keep his omega safe. That's what Doc Weston told him, too. How can he do that when he can't see her? When she's so far away? He won't touch her; he won't do what she doesn't want him to. But it must be all right to check on her, just to make sure she's okay.

Released from his conflict, he moves swiftly into the bedroom. He's saturated in heat-scent in an instant and it sets his whole body throbbing in response. He loses hold of time, gets stuck as it runs, slippery and sticky by turns. It takes every ounce of control he has not to lie down and bury his face in the rumpled bedding where she's been lying. His omega. He imagines her there, so beautiful and smelling so good, wet and ready for his knot, begging for it, so grateful when he gives her what she needs.

His own moan in the quiet startles him. He's rubbing himself through his jeans, his dick painfully eager to get her spread out on his sheets and claim her, make her his.

But she's not here.

The shower. He can still hear it running.

A scrap of lucidity pierces the fog in his brain. Something isn't right.

He doesn't bother calling out or knocking. There's no time for that when she might be in danger. He opens the bathroom door and strides in, alert and ready to attack. She's huddled on the floor of the shower, still in her clothes, with a pallor that frightens him. On a wordless sound, he falls to his knees and crawls in with her. The water is ice cold.

"Damn it, Vic."

He plunges into the spray to yank her out of it and his head is suddenly clear. The water, he realizes; it's washing her scent away. Not all of it, but enough so he can think.

Her eyes look dull and glassy. Under his hands, her skin is hot to the touch despite the frigid water. It's obvious that the heat is still raging inside her.

He jerks the cold tap off and hauls her up. "How long have you been in here?"

She frowns, looking confused. "I was so hot. I just wanted..." Her tongue darts out to swipe across her lip and she sways into him. "You smell so good."

"Come on," he says, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her. "You can't stay in those wet clothes."

Vic blinks slowly at him, as if his words are difficult to understand. Then she steps back and shrugs off the towel. She strips her tank top over her head and tosses it on the floor.

Walt is frozen.

He should leave. She's not in danger. She's capable of undressing herself. But he can't seem to make his legs work. Her body is pumping out heat-scent like a furnace, filling up the small space, filling up his lungs, and he can't remember any of the things Doc Weston told him. He's losing himself.

Her breasts are perfect. Her shoulders, her ribs. She pushes down her shorts, kicking them away with one foot. His gaze falls lower and finds more perfection. Her hips, her thighs. The dark triangle covering her sex.

He's shaking with the effort of not touching her. As if she can read his mind, Vic steps into him and nuzzles against his throat. She starts unbuttoning his shirt.

He grabs her hands because there's some reason she shouldn't do this. There's some reason that neither of them should. "What... what are you doing?"

She looks up at him with water droplets clinging to her eyelashes. "Your clothes are wet, too."

Yes, he thinks, hazily. They have to get dry. Both of them.

Their hands are slick with water, slipping and skidding on each other as she helps him undress. It takes so much concentration and it's an eternity before he feels all her glorious skin pressed against him. At first they simply hold each other close. His face rests in the curve of her shoulder and his aching dick is cradled against the softness of her belly. For a while, it's enough to satisfy his craving. Then it's not.

His hands begin to roam greedily across her shoulders and down her back, over her hips and buttocks, squeezing the firm flesh. She moans and arches into him, widening her stance invitingly. His head is spinning. They strain against each other, trying to meld into one skin. It's nothing to slide his hands down a little more to reach the heat radiating between her legs. She rises on her toes with a gasp, clutching his shoulders.

He's panting and dizzy as he curves his fingers in to touch her wet, swollen sex. She moans. He trails along her labia and her hips jerk. He wraps one arm around them to anchor her there and brings his hand up to sniff at the glorious scent on his fingers, suck the rich flavor from them. Then he goes back for more.

"Walt, please. Please."

She sounds breathless and desperate, on the edge of tears, so unlike herself. Her distress shocks his stupefied brain into comprehension. Panicked, he tries to pull away but Vic clings to him.

"We have to stop," he says with difficulty. "This isn't what you want."

"I do want it. I want you."

There's something wrong with that; he's sure of it, but he can't remember why when all her hot skin is writhing against him and she smells so good and he's burning up for her. It's so exactly what his body and his rut-clouded brain are screaming and he's trying but they're too loud to think beyond. She's too close and she wants it. His muscles are on fire with the strain of holding back.

"I need it," she moans. "I need you. Please."

His last vestige of control splinters.

He grabs the wet tail of her hair to yank her head back and get at her throat. She whimpers. He picks her up and carries her to the bed, covering her with his body as he lays her down. Single-minded now, he bites and sucks and licks every inch of skin he can reach, crawling down her body to knead her breasts and tug at her hard little nipples with his teeth.

He can't be gentle, or slow, and knows she doesn't want him to be. This is urgent, imperative, for both of them. Her nails dig into his skin fiercely. He follows the musky-sweet scent on his fingers down, down to the apex of her thighs until his face is level with her sex, so flushed and pretty and wet. He has to get more of that scent in his nose, more of that taste in his mouth.

She makes the most beautiful sounds as he eats her out. Ravenous, he licks and sucks at her flesh until he's covered in her slickness. She climaxes again and again from his mouth and his fingers and he's lost in a mindless haze of pleasure and greed.

Somewhere in his blissed-out state, he feels her nails bite into his scalp and shove his head away.

"I can't, I can't stand it, please," she sobs.

He pushes up with a growl and she pulls at his shoulders, trying to grind herself against him.

"Please fuck me, please, I need it, I—" She breaks off with a cry as he covers her again, pressing down heavily. His sticky pre-come smears in the sweat on their bellies. Her eyes are wild and dark, the muscles in her neck corded with strain. "Your knot, I need your knot, oh fuck, Walt, give it to me..."

His brain whites out in a flash of high-pitched electric whine, his intellect burned away and leaving only brute instinct.

He rears back and yanks her further down the bed. She rolls over onto her stomach, then pushes herself up onto her elbows and knees, thighs wide open just for him. He grabs her hips and mounts her, rutting erratically through the unbelievable wetness of her sex, utterly lost in the sublime feel of her body so ready to be mated, to be claimed. She's moaning into the mattress, shoving back against him impatiently and forcing him to hold her still.

He pushes into her with a helpless groan. She's so soft and hot and tight he wants to stay here forever. Filthy, liquid sounds rise between them as he begins to thrust. The swell of his knot flirts with her entrance on every down-stroke.

"Harder," demands his omega. His strong, beautiful omega.

And he's the only one who can give her what she needs.

His grip on her hips turns punishing as he shoves into her hard. Her hands scrabble at the sheets and she whines high in her throat, but she's so wet, pushing back against him so eagerly. He hears himself murmuring incoherent words of praise and encouragement as she mewls, his swelling knot catching and sinking in a little more each time.

He lets go of her hips and stretches himself over her back, knowing without knowing the exact spot on her neck, the exact pressure he needs to use to help her get through their coda. He bites down on that sweet spot and she lets out a sighing little _oh_ like music. Her sex relaxes around him, somehow growing even wetter, and his knot slides home.

The pressure is so intense and so perfect that the universe just stops.

Vic lets out a wild, triumphant cry, climaxing beneath him. Her sex clenches down on him and he moans, grinding himself into her as she pulls his orgasm out of him in hot waves of pleasure.

His knot still pulses inside her when his climax fades. She's pliant under his heavy bulk, panting. He manages to roll them onto their sides but it jars his knot and they both moan at the feeling. Vic squirms and arches a little, shuddering. He slides his hand down along her belly and slips it between her legs, parting her labia with his fingers to reach her clitoris. As she rocks against him he coaxes her gently to another orgasm. Her sex ripples and makes him shiver with the added stimulation. She lets him stroke her through one last, fluttering climax before pushing his hand away.

Walt floats in the dreamy satisfaction of having his omega safe and full of his knot. She's soft and quiescent in his arms as he pets her tenderly, brushes kisses over her shoulders, breathes her in. This is all that matters. This is everything.

Her scent changes so subtly and he's still so hazy with rut that it takes him much longer than it should to realize she's crying.

Something cold settles in his gut.

"What is it? Did I hurt you?"

She shakes her head, breath hitching. He runs his hands everywhere he can reach, checking for injuries, but finding none. She's gone stiff with tension and he doesn't know what to do.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"I don't want to be like this," she whispers raggedly.

"No, don't say that," he murmurs, holding her tighter and rubbing his cheek against her wet hair. "Don't say that. You're wonderful."

Her dark laughter echoes from her back into his chest. "I'm a fucking freak."

He doesn't understand, can't think past the satisfied alpha inside him. "We're the same."

"It's different for you. You don't infect people."

He makes a low sound of displeasure. "You don't infect people, either."

"I infected you," she says, sounding so desolate that his heart aches.

"Love isn't an infection," he says. He wants to make her feel better but it only seems to make her cry harder.

Feeling useless, he continues to touch her gently, trying to soothe her without words. After a time her tears abate and her body relaxes into his. Then they lie together quietly, bound tight but entirely separate, waiting for his knot to subside.

[TBC]

* * *

 **notes:** fake science, fake bible quotes. where will it end?!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** sport has rain delays; writing has migraine delays. (...see what i did there?) anyway, here's some more filth.

* * *

 _The physiological differences caused by Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion are located almost entirely within the brain itself. One region of special interest is the inferior parietal lobule of the right hemisphere, composed of both the supramarginal gyrus and the angular gyrus. A meta-analysis of related fMRI research on this area published in 2017 (see Sathian, et al.) reveals a distinct correlation between increased activity in the supramarginal gyrus and decreased activity in the angular gyrus in both Alpha and Omega Types during the respective phases of rut and heat. It has been proposed that this inverse relationship between the gyri forms the neurological basis for many of the cognitive and behavioral changes experienced during these phases, particularly heightened empathic awareness between mates and mild deficits in complex language functions._

 _—Dr. Nisreen Waelsch,_ _ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion_

. . .

Everything seems like a cruel joke now.

Vic's taking her third shower in less than a day, as much for an excuse to avoid Walt as to wash away the sweaty, sticky evidence of her humiliation. The moment he'd walked into her hospital room, she'd known with a dreadful certainty that there was no way they could avoid the inevitable; she just hadn't wanted to admit it to herself. But even with the drugs still in her system, the want, the _need_ for him had nagged at her like a sore tooth, like an itch she couldn't scratch: something impossible to push to the back of her mind.

She'd really believed she knew how it would be. She'd expected heat-fucking to be degrading, exhausting, painful, even messy. What she hadn't been prepared for, what she couldn't have possibly foreseen, was Walt's sweetness.

At first, in the aftermath, she'd been too stunned for anything, even shame. The experience had been overwhelmingly powerful; it felt like the emotional equivalent of a lightning strike with all her circuits jangled and misfiring, sparking at random. Walt's knot had been a constant, unrelenting pressure inside her: a paradox of comfort and pleasure and _too much_.

When her mind had finally cleared of the heat haze, Vic almost wished it hadn't. She'd been glad, at least, that she couldn't see his face when she started to cry.

The way he'd touched her as they lay there had been so tender, so... loving, that it stripped her raw. He'd sliced open her softest and most vulnerable places without a hint of understanding. None of it was genuine; none of it was real.

Nothing has ever hurt so badly as knowing that for Walt it's only a sort of temporary madness. Once her heat is over, their relationship will go back to what it used to be. Every day they'll show up for work and pretend he never fucked her blind. They'll pretend she never stuck her ass in the air and begged for his cock.

She'll pretend that the memories don't fill her with hideous shame.

He'll be her boss and even something like a friend when it's convenient for him. She'll be his deputy and loyal right hand. She won't be a woman who got a glimpse of everything she wants in a distorted funhouse mirror. He won't be a man who's programmed to think he loves her with the right chemical mix.

Trying to remind herself about what an asshole he's been and what he did to Eamonn only makes Vic feel worse. That's on her as well. Walt's jealousy, his aggressively territorial actions, were nothing more than her hormones screwing with his.

It's not his fault that he's been pulled into this; she's like a drowning swimmer who drags her rescuer down with her. And he does love her, in a way. She knows that. He loves her enough to risk his life to save her, just not enough to let her in. He's never pretended to be any different. It's Vic who's the fool for thinking she might have been special.

 _You should've known better,_ she tells the hands she's got braced against the tile wall in front of her. After all, she'd been an eyewitness to the way Walt had treated Lizzie Ambrose. Pretty Lizzie who'd probably thought she was special, too.

And still there's a part of Vic that just wants to curl up with him in a warm, cozy nest, to let him touch her and soothe her, to let herself pretend for a while. That part of her refuses to shut up.

She'd rip this thing out of herself if she could.

When her fingers start to wrinkle, Vic forces herself to turn off the water and get out of the shower. Even in the enclosed space of the bathroom the tang of Walt's scent invades the air. She resents the hell out of the way it softens her jagged edges and gently fuzzes her brain, but there's no way to keep herself from breathing it in.

Her body already feels wrong and uncomfortable this far away from him. It's only going to get worse.

Drying herself off, Vic examines the marks he's left on her: blooming bruises and red indentations from bites not quite hard enough to break the skin. She hasn't let a guy give her so much as a hickey since high school but a hot thrill skitters through her just thinking about Walt laying claim to her like this. Her cunt tightens as she imagines wearing these marks openly, displaying them proudly for anyone to see and know that she's his.

The idea makes her skin crawl with disgust at how much she likes it.

Walt's scent is even stronger when she walks into the bedroom and she can't stop herself from taking deeper breaths. He's always smelled good to her, even at the end of a long day, but with him in rut it's a thousand times more potent. She wants to bathe in it, eat it, live on nothing else until she dies of sheer sensory overload. It winds through her blood, stroking the pleasure centers in her brain and sensitizing every inch of her skin.

Vic pulls on another pair of shorts and a tank top with the wry thought that she might as well not bother. Walt doesn't own a hair dryer, so she drags a comb through her wet hair and braids it back out of her way. It'll take forever to dry like this but at least it won't be dripping down her neck.

She tidies up the bathroom; Walt has already remade the bed with clean sheets. There's nothing left to distract herself with and the needy thing inside her is growing stronger. Her cunt is already throbbing. Now that her body knows what's supposed to happen, it doesn't seem inclined to wait to get to round two.

Just the sight of him makes her pulse speed up when she walks into the kitchen. He's dressed but barefoot, with hair that's still damp and flat in places and fluffed up in others where it's dried. It should look silly but it only fills her with affection. His smile when he sees her, a big, happy smile, does terrible, wonderful things to her heart.

"Are you hungry?" he asks when they're standing close to each other.

She can see how he's deliberately breathing her in, his pupils already dilated. Without looking, she knows he's hard.

"Not really."

"You haven't eaten anything in almost a day, Vic."

His worry feels like a caress, soft as mist on her skin. Looking into his eyes is like falling — with him or into him; it's all the same.

"Maybe in a couple of hours."

He gives her a long look before nodding. "Okay."

Vic takes the glass of water he hands her and backs away. It's a wrenching effort but it proves that she's still in control. She might be hanging on by her fingertips, but she's still in control.

The leather of the couch feels cool against the backs of her thighs when she sits down. Her eyes stray over to Walt without permission. She swallows some water; she picks at a scab on her leg. Looks over. He's looking back. All the windows are open but she still feels too hot. She's itchy and restless; she can't sit still.

She looks and he's looking. The water in her glass trembles. She sets it down and picks up a book from the coffee table instead. Her eyes betray her and meet his again. Her body pulses. She can't concentrate on the book enough to even read the title. Her skin feels too tight. She gets up and prowls the space to hide her jitters. There's nowhere to go. How does such a big man live in such a tiny place without suffocating?

She looks and wants to slap that gentle expression right off Walt's face. She wants him to take her, just take her so she doesn't have to think or fight it anymore. She wants. Jesus, how she _wants_. She looks.

This room is too small and he's a magnet. The ache drives deeper, spreading roots, taking hold. Behind her eyes, at the base of her spine, in her swollen, needy cunt: this yearning is eating her alive.

She looks.

Snaps.

"I'm not a fucking zoo exhibit!"

It's like a cork popping and smashing through a window. The pressure inside her releases and hits him right in the face. Vic wants to cram the words back into her mouth as soon as she says them.

"Sorry. Fuck, Walt, I'm sorry." She pushes the heels of her hands into her eye sockets until flashes of light burst in the darkness so she doesn't have to see his expression. "It's not you, I'm just— I'm going crazy. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"Would it be easier if I left for a while? Took a walk?"

Even the idea makes her feel panicky. Her head jerks up and she has to blink away the spangles in her vision. "No."

"What if I sat out on the porch?"

His tone is calm and he's trying to be so understanding and helpful and it's _infuriating_.

"Don't you get it?" In frustration she grabs at her arms and digs her fingers into them. "I don't want you to go anywhere because even being this far away from you _hurts_ , Walt. It's like my bones ache because you're not touching me. Like I'm in fucking withdrawal or something. And I know it'll get better if you get closer and I want it so much and I hate that. I _hate_ that I can't stand this feeling. I _hate_ how helpless I am because I can't fight it and I... just hate it," she finishes weakly.

He walks a little closer, leaning on the near end of the table. One hand rests on the back of the chair next to him and she stares at it. He has to touch her soon or she's going to die.

"I feel it too."

Vic lifts her eyes to his, doubtful. "You seem fine."

"I don't think it's as bad for me as it is for you, but I feel it. Not being near you, not touching you, it..." He seems to struggle for the right word. "Feels wrong somehow."

"Yeah," she breathes. She's taken two steps towards him without meaning to. "And it's worse now that we..."

"Yeah."

His voice does indecent things to her. His eyes do even more.

"It's worse but it's better."

"Uh huh."

The air between them is burning. She takes another step forward.

"This is so fucked up."

His lips quirk in a lopsided smile. He's so big and broad, so strong. Strong enough to protect her and keep her safe, strong enough to lift her and pin her down. To mate her, to fill her up. He's gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles are white. She's already so wet she can feel it smearing between the tops of her thighs.

"I think," she begins and then stops blankly. She doesn't think anything; she doesn't know anything except how much she needs this alpha, _her_ alpha, to fill the unbearable emptiness inside her the way that only he can. Her cunt is pulsing around nothing, greedy for his cock, for his knot.

It's happening again. God help her, despite everything, she wants him even more this time. She stumbles forward in the spinning room and he reaches out to catch her arm. That's all it takes.

He hauls her against him with a groan, his mouth on her neck and his hands on her ass. His hands are so big and his mouth is so hot and the bulge in his jeans is so hard that all she can do is rub herself against him and hold on. He kisses her mouth and then moves back to her neck, along her throat, over her shoulder. Pushing her away from him, he rips her tank top over her head and then his hands are on her breasts, his mouth is on them. She arches into him, her hands in his hair, whimpering with relief that she can finally, finally surrender.

He's the only thing keeping her upright as they stagger into the bedroom. She's aware of nothing but him and the savage need raging between them. His naked skin is a flame that sets her ablaze. She tries to roll over onto her stomach but he holds her still.

"No, let me... I want to see you."

She moves where he guides her, until his back's against the headboard and she's astride him. His cock is tantalizingly close and she reaches—

"Not yet," he says in soft command, grabbing her wrists.

She struggles, can't help it, can't stop.

Then he kisses her, slick and hot, devouring. God, _his mouth._ There's nothing else; she doesn't even feel him let go of her wrists.

Two fingers push roughly inside her and force the air out of her lungs in a ragged cry. Her mouth tears from his, her eyes fly open, and then there's a third finger, a fourth. She rocks her hips, riding his hand, and it's almost, almost enough. Almost enough with his eyes on her and the obscene sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of her dripping cunt.

In and out, in and out, almost, almost—

He takes his fingers away.

She's so _empty_ and it _hurts_ and she slaps at his chest in anger. But his hands are digging into her hips and jerking her forward and his cock is rising up long and thick and almost too much already and she's sinking down and _so good it's so good_ how he fills her, how he stops the pain.

They grind against one another mindlessly, the friction so perfect, his mouth sucking and biting at her neck and her breasts, her breath just ragged gasps. Streaks of electricity race through her; she comes in a bright flash that lights up her spine. In the hot blur of pleasure, he drags her down harder and thrusts up so his knot catches and presses. The added stimulation draws out her orgasm in layered waves of sensation as she shakes helplessly.

He doesn't stop, just works her on his cock when she's too limp to move. It's as if she hasn't just come; her body revs right back into desperate need. Muscles trembling with effort, she lifts herself up to let him pull her back onto him. Over and over, she pushes down against his swelling knot, body overloaded with how _right_ it feels, whimpering at the unbearable way it stretches her cunt. Her head falls back, too heavy for her neck to hold up.

"That's it," Walt says hoarsely. "Like that. Just like that. Good girl. You're doin' so good, Vic, so good."

Ripples of pleasure run through her, the praise almost enough to make her come again. He's proud of her, her alpha. This is what she's made for; she exists to take his knot, to feel like this, to be filled by him and no one else.

This time it's his hand instead of his mouth on the back of her neck but the effect of the grip is just the same. All her muscles go pliant as euphoria fills her. His knot slips fully inside her with one last thrust and it's too much, overwhelming. Signals run scrambled through her as her body flashes from hot to cold, from pleasure to pain. She's coming in hard, clenching waves, keening as her cunt squeezes and ties down around him.

When it's over she's boneless and cradled against Walt's chest, blissfully full of his knot still pulsing inside her. It sends hot little spikes of raw pleasure through her that make her hips twitch despite how exhausted she feels.

This time her mind is blank and peaceful. Walt has one hand smoothing up and down her back, while the other kneads her ass gently. A soft moan rises in her throat, a helpless pleasure sound, and an answering noise rumbles from him in wordless reply. Vic doesn't want to think or feel or remember anything outside this moment. She nuzzles closer to his warm, good-smelling skin, and allows herself to float away.

[TBC]


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** chapters 5 and 6 have each come with their very own migraine, like a really bad gift with purchase. and so far every chapter has been at least a thousand words longer after i've revised it. this is getting out of hand.

* * *

 _Far from the ethological understanding of omega animals as subordinate and submissive within all aspects of the social hierarchy, displays of these characteristics occur in Omega Type solely during estrus and solely in the context of mating. The prevailing cultural image of an omega woman as essentially a nymphomaniac is without basis in either science or praxis. While unmated omegas in estrus have historically been subjected to sexual predation and abuse, their biological imperative is not indiscriminate sexual interaction. They require a genetically compatible Alpha Type with whom to mate. Once mated, an omega's sexual availability is exclusive to that individual for the remainder of estrus. Similarly, once impelled into the rut phase by an omega, the alpha is bound to the exclusive service and protection of that individual. This dyadic relationship is referred to as a pair bond and typically extends beyond the period of estrus._

 _—Dr. Nisreen Waelsch,_ _ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion_

. . .

Walt feels much more lucid this time around. Though his thoughts are swimming in exhaustion, his mind is relatively clear. And his heart is... his heart is full of a startling and fragile feeling that makes him afraid to breathe too loudly in case he frightens it away.

Vic is asleep in his arms. Her bright head rests on his shoulder; her body is warm and relaxed against his. Though his knot has shrunk enough to slip out, and they're sticky with fluids and sweat, he never wants to leave this moment. He hates the thought of separating himself from her, despite how his legs are going numb.

But they both need rest, Vic especially. He has to focus; he has to take care of her.

Shifting positions and extricating himself without waking her is an awkward process. Walt's legs feel a little shaky on the way to the bathroom but the numbness wears off quickly. He cleans himself up, drinks some water, and returns to the bedroom with a warm, damp cloth for Vic.

A long moment passes while he simply stands at the side of the bed, with an ache in the tender place tucked behind his breastbone, and looks.

Her face has lost the hectic flush of heat, but her lips are still slightly swollen from their kisses. Their kisses and — his body flashes hot at a particularly visceral memory — his teeth. He'd bitten her, he remembers. He'd bitten her everywhere.

From her neck down to her thighs, she's covered in bite marks and finger-shaped bruises that stand out like exclamations against her pale skin. Walt knows she's put her share of similar marks on him. A distant part of his mind is shocked and mortified at how violent and consuming their sex has been, and at how fully he's reveled in it. But the animal much closer to the surface is pleased and aroused by this evidence of his claim. Proof that she's his mate.

He doesn't quite know how he's going to reconcile those feelings when this is all over.

Sitting carefully on the bed, he gently parts Vic's legs to wipe away the mess between them. Knowing she must be tender and sore, he touches her as delicately as he can. She turns her head on the pillow and lets out a soft sigh but doesn't wake. Something twists fiercely in the pit of his stomach. For a few seconds he has to rest his head on her thigh and close his eyes just to breathe.

It's mid-afternoon by the clock. Walt draws the curtains against the thin, bright sunlight that streams through the windows. When he climbs back into bed and lies down next to Vic, she turns toward him, mumbling something unintelligible. Her eyes flutter open and he freezes in place, feeling as though he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. She smiles at him — a sweet, genuine smile — and then sighs. Her eyes drift closed again.

His chest feels as though it might crack.

Though she's still fever-warm with her heat, he draws the sheet up over them both just in case she cools down in sleep. He smooths a few strands of hair off her cheek and places a soft kiss there, then curves himself around her and closes his eyes.

He drifts in and out of a shallow kind of sleep, knowing he won't manage anything deeper yet, not when he has to keep watch over her, keep her safe. She moves from time to time, twitching, changing positions, but never straying more than a few inches from him on the bed. Even unconscious, their bodies feel the inexorable tether.

As the shadows lengthen the pendulum of her heat swings up again. Walt smells the change in her scent and his mouth begins to water. She's lying on her side now, with her back to him, and he gathers her in tight against him. With the skin-to-skin contact her scent grows even stronger, enveloping him in an intoxicating cocoon.

Pale wisps of hair fallen from her braid tickle his lips. He strokes them away to reveal her nape, sucking light kisses into the fine-grained skin. She tastes as good as she smells. Restless and eager, his hand sweeps along the firm flesh of her arm, down over her flat belly, and back across her thigh. His hips make leisurely circles against her soft, warm backside.

She wakes with a quiet sound of discomfort, already turning to him. He guides her onto her back so he can kiss her mouth, her pretty, luscious mouth that's been his torment for so long. Her lips open for him easily, and he sinks between them with a low moan.

This time it's easy to be gentle, to go slowly. She's so strong, his omega, so eager for his knot, but he knows she's tired and sore; he wants to be good to her, take care of her like this. So he touches her softly, tenderly, showing her with his mouth and hands how proud he is to be her mate, how precious she is to him.

She responds with dreamy, languid undulations as he moves from her mouth to her sweet little ear, her elegant throat. His body is all banked urgency, consumed by the pleasurable agony of restraint. Her hands cradle his head as he palms one of her breasts, flexing his fingers into the flesh until she arches against him with a moan. He takes her other nipple in his mouth with gentle suction and flicks it lightly with his tongue.

"Walt," she breathes.

It's a summons he's helpless to resist.

He lifts his head and rises up to kiss her again. She's flushed a rosy pink and her golden eyes open slowly to meet his. They're huge and dark, unfocused. Something changes in them as he lowers his mouth to hers but he can't think beyond his clamoring lust and the need he has to sate.

She responds to him with an aggression that confuses his rut-dumb brain: digging her nails into his shoulders and biting his tongue hard enough to hurt. When he rears back and pins her arms, she fights against his hold, trying to throw him off of her and turning her face away from his until he grabs her jaw and forces her look at him.

"Stop it," he growls.

"Either fuck me or get off me so I can find someone who will," she spits back.

He snarls in outrage and presses more of his weight onto her in instinctive reaction to the threat. "No one else can have you."

They're both breathing hard. Fury beats inside his pulse in response to her challenge. He'll show her. He'll show her just what her alpha can do.

Letting go of her arms, he pushes up to shove her thighs apart. "No one else," he repeats.

He gets his shoulders under her knees so that she's spread wide open and helpless beneath him. The angle of her hips offers up every inch of her wet, swollen sex to his gaze.

"Is this what you want?" he demands.

Her jaw clenches and she refuses to answer. A vicious pleasure slithers through his veins. He drops down and plunges inside her right up to the edge of his swelling knot, then holds himself perfectly still.

She makes a sound like a cut-off wail and claws at his back.

He pins her wrists.

With her hands trapped and her legs hooked over his shoulders she has no leverage, can only toss her head and bare her teeth at him.

"Is this what you want?" he repeats.

"Fuck you."

Looking down into her stubborn face, he can't help but admire how fierce she is. She's fighting even though her body is crying out for him, even though she's only fighting herself.

They both know how this will end.

But the battle will be glorious.

He begins to grind against her in tight circles so that his knot is no more than a constant teasing pressure. She struggles in his hold, straining to lift her hips, but he only bears her back down to the mattress with more force each time.

Her need burns hotter with every heartbeat; he can smell it, feel it. Her scent is so thick he can taste it on his tongue. He grinds steadily against her slippery heat and watches her resolve weaken, watches for the moment she gives in.

"Is this what you want?" he asks again and she gasps a single word.

 _Yes._

Her capitulation is incendiary. They're on fire together. Suddenly he's thrusting into her without restraint, all thoughts of gentleness burned away. Her moans are singing wildly in his ear. She's a hot, tight heaven all around him; just his, only his.

He leans close enough to feel her panting breaths as he works his knot into her. "No one else, Vic," he tells her with dark satisfaction. "Only me."

Her eyelids flutter for a moment and he feels her sex clench around him.

"You're mine," he says into her mouth, sucking and licking at her lips.

She writhes beautifully beneath him. "Yes, yes. God, please..."

He releases one of her hands to reach for the back of her neck.

"Say it," he commands—

"I'm yours," she sobs. "I'm yours, Walt, please..."

—and tightens his grip.

They crash together like waves in a rough sea. Wordless sounds tear from both their throats as his knot lodges firmly in place. She freezes, eyes wide and fixed. A great shudder overtakes her and then he feels her tighten as she climaxes, a harsh cry spilling from her lips.

He shakes with the ferocious pleasure of her walls clamping and tying down on his knot, and the slow, rolling orgasm her body wrings from his.

For long minutes there's only the rasp of their breathing and the white noise in his head. Vic's eyes are closed when he musters the strength to ease her legs from his shoulders one at a time. Exhausted, he settles with his arms wrapped underneath her and his head resting in the fragrant curve of her neck.

His knot pulses at odd intervals and makes them both shiver.

"Am I too heavy?" he thinks to ask after a while.

"No," she says, quiet.

As his head gradually clears, Walt registers the stiffness of her body. There's a subtle but familiar difference in her scent. After their first mating he'd been overwhelmed by rut and unable to comprehend why she was so upset. Now that he's more lucid, he understands only too well.

Propping himself on his elbows, he studies her. She's turned her head so far to the side it must be hurting her neck and her eyes are tightly closed. He supposes there's nowhere else she can hide from him when they're face to face.

"Vic," he says softly.

She's feigning sleep.

More hair has come loose from her braid and it's stuck to her sweaty neck. Walt peels it away and bends his head to nuzzle her there. Against his lips, her skin is salty sweet.

"I know you're not asleep," he murmurs directly in her ear.

She lets out a short, sharp exhale. "What?"

While not exactly an invitation, it's at least an improvement on her silence.

"We need to talk about this."

"There's nothing to say."

"Is that why you're afraid to look at me?"

Her eyes open with a well-aimed glare. "Maybe I just don't _want_ to look at you."

"Fair enough. But I still think we should talk."

The brief flare of her usual fire winks out. There's a wounded look in her eyes that he's only seen a few times before. Ed Gorski. Chance Gilbert. Her worst moments. They're company Walt is ashamed to keep.

A single tear slips down the side of her face and he bends his head to capture it with his lips. Her breath hitches.

He's a tangle of feelings and impulses, full of regret, sorrow, and a desperate need to offer comfort. "Please don't cry," he begs softly, kissing her cheek, her jaw. He pulls one of his arms from beneath her so he can stroke her hair. She's trembling under him and all he can do is range kisses across her face, trying to show how much he cares for her, trying to press some of his own happiness into her skin. "I love you, Vic," he murmurs.

She jerks as if he's slapped her.

"Don't you dare say that to me." Her hands shove hard at his shoulders. "Not now. Not like this."

He stares, genuinely shocked by the venom in her voice. "What?"

"You don't mean it, Walt! It's just screwed up hormones and neurotransmitters and what-the-fuck-ever else has hijacked your brain. I know that, even if you don't. So just stop. Stop making this worse than it already is."

Bewildered, and a little insulted, he can't deny the hurt on her face. "I do mean it."

Vic opens her mouth and he can't stand to hear her tell him what he does or doesn't feel again. So he kisses her.

She doesn't fight him; her resistance is passive this time. Walt can't force her to respond now, and wouldn't, even if he could, but he can persuade her, or at least try. This is simply a different kind of communication, an oblique place to start.

He explores her mouth with the lightest pressure. He slides his tongue across the shallow notch of her philtrum and sucks gently on her bottom lip. The downy skin of her cheek is like velvet under his hand, unbelievably soft. He strokes it with his thumb while his fingers thread into her hair.

She doesn't turn her head or push him away, and so he goes on kissing her.

At last, she begins to kiss him back. Her hands curl over his shoulders and pull him closer. She parts her lips and a breath shivers out between them. He licks into her mouth and returns her breath with a sigh.

So grateful, he's so grateful for this chance. With his lips and tongue he promises not to waste it.

Vic kisses him deeper, wrapping her legs around his hips. His knot pulses inside her and they moan together. Walt has never felt so connected to another person in all his life.

When he finally has to catch his breath, he rests his brow against hers without opening his eyes. "I do mean it, Vic," he tells her earnestly. "Not because of what's happening now. I've felt it for a long time. I'll still feel it when this is over."

She doesn't say anything, but he has no expectations. Patience is the least of what he owes her. It's enough for now that her body is relaxed against his. One of her hands rests on the back of his neck. Her fingers ruffle the ends of his hair.

He's so grateful.

"I want to believe you," Vic says after a long span of time.

Walt lifts his head again, glad when she meets his eyes. "I know I haven't done much lately to give you a reason to."

"No," she agrees with the hint of a sad smile. "You've been kind of an asshole."

A breath of laughter escapes him because it's true, and it's so very like her to be this starkly and succinctly honest even as she's offering him the thread of a forgiveness he hasn't managed to ask for yet and likely doesn't deserve.

He thinks about the way he's been behaving, not just since he returned to work but farther back, since Branch's death. The illumination provided by hindsight is less than flattering. He's been selfish and so unfair. She's suffered because he hasn't had the courage to face his fears.

"I'm sorry, Vic. I can't tell you how much."

She regards him with a wariness that carves a piece out of his chest. "You treated me like I was a stranger."

"I know. I was afraid, but that's no excuse. I took it out on you and that was wrong." He has to stop and take a deep breath in order to finish. "I hope you can forgive me, but I won't blame you if that's too much to ask."

"What were you afraid of?" she says after a moment.

"Losing you."

"You're not afraid anymore?"

He shakes his head. "No use being scared of something that's already happened."

Tears glitter in her eyes and her chin trembles. "You're so stupid."

"Yep."

That makes her laugh a little. "I'm afraid too," she confesses.

"Of what?"

"I'm scared that when you look at me now all you'll see is this weak thing inside me."

He's stunned. "There's nothing weak inside you, Vic. How can you think that?"

Some of her familiar fire returns as she raises her eyebrows. "Uh, I don't know, Walt, how about the fact that I've begged you to fuck me three times now?"

A memory leaps out from the background of his mind and slams into him, turning his cheeks crimson with shame.

"Those things I said... Vic, I didn't mean..."

She shakes her head and cups his face in her hands. "I liked it." The way she bites her lip as she smiles makes him very aware that they're still tied together. That he's still inside her. "It was hot. Really, really hot."

For a long moment he's too off balance, and too aroused, to form words. "I liked it, too," he confesses when he can speak. "But I don't want you to think that I—"

"I don't," she says firmly. Her hands fall from his face to fidget on his shoulders. "But the other times were all me."

Now it's Walt who shakes his head. "I know you feel out of control. I do, too. I can't stop this any more than you can. We're the same, Vic. I told you that. If you believe it makes you weak then I'm weak too."

"But it's my fault you—"

"No, it's not. It's not about fault. This, all of this, is part of who you are just as much as your blood type or the color of your eyes." Those beautiful, vulnerable eyes looking up at him now. He smiles at her sadly. "Maybe it's my fault because I can't control myself around you."

"That's not true," she says, so quick to defend him, even from himself.

"Yes, it is. I knew you didn't want this but I couldn't stop it."

"I did want it, Walt."

"Maybe, when it was happening, but not before. And not after." This time when she bites her lip he feels no spark of desire. "I'm ashamed of that, but not as ashamed as I should be."

"No," she says, her brow creased. One of her hands rises to feather across his lips. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He kisses the tips of her fingers. "I couldn't stop myself loving you, wanting you. You were married, Vic. It was wrong. And I hurt you. That was even more wrong."

"Walt..."

"You are so strong, Vic." He needs her to believe this even if she believes nothing else he ever says. "One of the strongest people I've ever known. What's happening now doesn't diminish that one bit."

Her eyes are shining as she pulls his head down.

He tastes their mingled salt.

[TBC]

* * *

 **notes:** writing with the id: a transcript of futility

id: FILTH!  
me: right, but we need to also provide some emotional context, examine motivations, that sort of thing.  
id: NO CONTEXT! ONLY FILTH!  
me: *sigh*  
brain: *MIGRAINE*  
me: i give up.  
id: ...filth?  
me: go away.  
id: FILTH!


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** the odd thing i've found is that the sex requires very little revising; it's all the rest that takes so much work. does this mean my id is a better writer than the rest of me? that's really depressing.

* * *

 _Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion is not a disease. It's an extremely rare chromosomal mutation that results in a markedly different reproductive process for affected individuals. It's not evil. It's not a sin. Trying to make some kind of moral argument about it is as senseless as arguing the morals of the tortoiseshell fur pattern on a cat. They are normal and harmless genetic mutations, that's all. So the question people should be asking isn't, "Is this wrong?" It's, "Why do we care so much about the reproductive lives of other people?" If you can provide a rational answer to that question then perhaps we can begin to have a real conversation._

 _Dr. Nisreen Waelsch, author of_ _ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion_ _, on The Today Show_

. . .

The egg yolks are the color of summer sunshine as they plop into the bowl. Walt's cracking them perfectly one-handed like a cooking show host, something she's never been able to manage. His fingers are so precise, using just the right amount of pressure to pierce the tough membrane without shattering the delicate shell.

To say the last few hours have been a lot to handle would be an injustice to the scale of the shitstorm. It's like calling a tsunami a wave; sure, technically it's true, but only one of them can raze a whole damn city. Vic feels out of focus, emotionally raw, and absolutely bone tired. There's a slight sense of unreality to everything around her. Even the air has a gauzy quality, as if she's looking through a lens that's faintly blurred. Her thoughts drift with no direction, like dandelion seeds in the wind.

The play of muscles in Walt's back and arms as he works is hypnotic. Sitting at the kitchen table, she admires how the pale grey t-shirt he's wearing hugs his shoulders and biceps. His jeans are more worn than the ones she usually sees him in and without a belt they sit lower on his hips in a way that's very distracting. He looks good. Better than good.

He starts whisking milk in with the eggs, holding the bowl at a slight angle. Frothy, pale yellow bubbles begin to form where Vic can see below the edge of the rim.

His scent is a pilot light that's keeping her body at a constant low burn. The undertow of her heat tugs constantly at her insides. If he wanted to fuck her right now... well. Just the memory of the last time makes her cunt tighten. The way he'd held her down, the things he'd said, how her anger and excitement had twisted together until they were a single desperate, writhing need...

And then after. Vic doesn't have words for that.

Her hands had been on his face when she'd kissed him and tasted tears. Walt had lifted his head and looked down at her, not trying to hide that he was crying. It had felt as if he'd cracked his own ribs wide to let her see his beating heart. Shaken and amazed, she could only hold him close until both their tears had dried.

Now he's fixing her supper.

"Are you sure I can't help with anything?" she asks because he's got to be just as wrung out as she is.

He shakes his head as he sets a frying pan on the range and lights the gas below it. "I'm under orders to take care of you."

"And you're so good at obeying orders," she says dryly.

"I am when they're about you."

Her stomach erupts with butterflies at the quiet gravity in his response. She has to look out the window to escape his eyes.

The darkening sky is stained with orange; purple shadows smudge the horizon. Evening is slowly stealing overhead but somehow this room still feels like morning. Vic's memory of the night she spent here is made up of warm, cozy browns and dark, muted greens, but now she sees color everywhere. The kitchen walls are painted a pale green, like tender new sprouts; the range is a bright metallic white; the cabinets are made from lighter woods than the beams and window frames, a spectrum between caramel and honey. On the table there's a dull mustard-yellow teapot, two plates a few shades of green brighter than the walls, and half a glass of vivid yellow juice.

She hears the butter melting in the pan begin to sizzle, then the hiss as Walt pours in the egg mixture. His spatula makes a swishing sound through the liquid that slowly sharpens into a scrape as the eggs begin cook. Vic finds herself watching him again without meaning to. His hair is lightly mussed from her hands. She likes the way it looks, so soft and thick and curling slightly in the back.

Happiness and tentative hope are blooming stubbornly inside her, like the flowers that grow among the gravel and weeds along the highways. So much of her is still weighed down and choked with doubt and fear, but those tenacious rose-colored feelings go right on flowering.

When the eggs are done, Walt brings the frying pan over to the table and slides fluffy yellow piles onto both their plates. "There's something I wanted to ask you," he says as he turns back to the range.

She picks up her fork, surprised to discover she's hungry. "Okay."

"Uh, well," he begins, setting the pan down. "I don't know if you talked about it with the doc, but, um..."

He trails off as he comes back to the table, just standing there with one hand on the back of his chair, making no move to either sit or finish his sentence.

"What?" she prompts.

"Are you, uh, taking birth control?"

Vic has to look down and concentrate on stabbing some eggs to keep from laughing. The man has literally had parts of his body inside her but he's embarrassed to ask if she's on the pill. It's kind of adorable.

"Don't worry, you're not going to knock me up," she reassures him. "I had my tubes tied when I was twenty-one. It's been so long that I kind of just forget about the whole pregnancy thing, you know?"

"Okay," he says, without inflection.

It's not a large table but right now Walt feels miles away. "So are you going to sit down at some point?"

He blinks as if he's just remembered where he is and pulls out his chair.

"Does it bother you?" she asks after a minute, pushing her eggs around on the plate. Her hunger's vanished as suddenly as it arrived. "That I can't have kids?"

"What?" He looks baffled by the question. "No, of course not."

"Then what's going on? And don't tell me it's nothing because that's bullshit."

HIs eyes refuse to meet hers. "The thought of you, um, being pregnant, of making you pregnant, I..."

"I get it," she says quietly when his struggle to articulate his feelings becomes too much.

Mating is about breeding. Instinct is telling him to stick a baby in her whether he wants to or not; of course the idea of accomplishing that biological goal would be seductive. Vic feels his shame like it's her own. In a way, she supposes, it is.

She reaches across the table to cover his hand. "You told me it's part of who I am. That goes for you too. We're the same, right?"

His smile starts out slow, just a shadow at the corners of his mouth, but the warmth of it glows when he finally raises his eyes. "Right," he says softly, turning his hand beneath hers.

Sometimes the way he looks at her makes her feel like she's staring at the sun. It's so intense she has to turn her face away, blinking against all that light.

With a gentle squeeze of her fingers, Walt releases her hand. "Eat your eggs before they get cold," he tells her.

It's such an ordinary thing to say in the middle of this utterly bizarre day that it makes her laugh.

Everything feels easier after that.

He tries to fight her when she insists on helping him clean up, but she just pulls her mostly dry hair back into a ponytail and tells him to get the fuck over it. Walt washes and she dries. To liven things up, after the glasses are safe, she snaps her towel at his ass. Without missing a beat, he lifts one hand from the sink and flicks warm, soapy water at her.

Then it's on.

Every few minutes she snaps and he flicks or he flicks and she snaps. They're both trying hard not to laugh, to act like this is totally normal dish washing behavior. But when he splashes the plates she's just finished drying, she cries foul in not-entirely-mock outrage.

He just smirks at her, eyebrows raised. "You started it."

It's more fun than Vic's had in a long time.

"What would you usually be doing now?" she asks him when they're settled on the couch. There's a lot she doesn't know about his day-to-day life. This seems like a good place to start.

"Reading," he says, then smiles ruefully. "Working. What about you?"

"Probably working. I think I've forgotten what to do when I have time off."

"Yeah," he agrees.

"Come on, you just had six weeks off. You must've done something."

"I read a lot. Cleaned the cabin. Built a bookcase."

"You're a real party animal," she says with a grin.

"Yep." Some of the lightness leaves his expression as he looks at her. "I, uh, did a lot of thinking."

Her heart does a little flip she tries to ignore. "You? I'm shocked."

Walt doesn't react to her sarcasm, but reaches out to stroke the side of her face. The touch makes her breath catch.

"What did you think about?" Her voice has lost most of its volume.

"A lot of things. You."

When did did he get so close? she wonders. His scent surrounds her, lapping at her skin, her insides. He traces the rim of her ear with one fingertip and she lets out a shaky breath.

"I thought about this," he says and leans in to place a delicate kiss on her neck.

Her head lolls sideways in supplication and his lips wander lightly. It's tormenting, just enough pressure not to tickle but not nearly enough to be what she wants. She arches her neck more to encourage him.

"God, Vic," he breathes hotly against her skin. "I tried so hard not to. But I couldn't help it."

He sucks a kiss under her jaw and she whimpers. The crotch of her shorts is already soaked.

"I thought about it too," she confesses, breathless.

He groans and brings his hand to the back of her neck, turning her head so his mouth can take hers over.

Vic gets her hands under his t-shirt. Walt pulls her thigh across his lap.

Somehow they end up twisted halfway between sitting up and lying down. The hem of her shirt is rucked up to her armpits. She's rubbing herself against him, the pressure and friction so perfect. One of his arms braces her back as she arches for his mouth on her breasts. He takes one nipple in a delicate bite between his teeth and tugs it, flicking his tongue against the very tip, and it sends an electric pulse all the way to her clit. She cries out, grinding down on his thigh. He does it again, a little harder each time, biting, pulling, flicking, until she comes with a choked off scream.

He sucks gently at her tender nipple while she shakes in reaction. When she lifts her head he pulls her up and into a wet, sloppy kiss. Just like before, her orgasm only amplifies the empty feeling inside her. It only makes her burn hotter.

She scrabbles at his shirt urgently to get at his skin. They break apart so she can tear it over his head and then he yanks off hers; they fall into one another hungrily again.

They're still pretzeled together awkwardly on the couch. Vic pulls back with a frustrated noise to get at the fly of his jeans. Walt pushes her hands away and does it himself, lifting his hips and shoving both jeans and underwear down to his thighs. The sight of his cock, hard and leaking, makes her cunt clench. She slides off the couch and leans in eagerly to get her mouth on it. He groans, fist clenching in her hair. His scent is so strong here, heightened by the taste of his pre-come on her tongue. She presses one hand between her legs to take the edge off her unsatisfied ache.

"Enough," he pants, but she doesn't want to stop.

Walt yanks on her ponytail, jerking her head back. It doesn't hurt, exactly; it's more of a shock. Her scalp tingles and she finds herself looking up at him while he holds her in place like an animal on a leash. She swallows hard, imagining how she must look: on her knees, her back arched so her bare tits jut out like offerings, her lips open and red and slick.

He could fuck her like this. He could do anything he wants.

"You like that," he says. It's not a question.

She shudders and feels fresh wetness slipping from her cunt.

His other hand slides into her shorts. It's a tease that does nothing but frustrate her, his fingers wandering without rhythm or purpose.

"Please," she whispers through dry lips, then cries out when he withdraws his hand.

"See how wet you are for me," he says, holding it up for her to see.

His slippery fingers smear slickness over both of her nipples, rubbing it on like lotion. He bends to her breasts and begins suckling, first one then the other, and she can't hold still. Her hips writhe against nothing and she reaches for something, anything, to hold on to.

His lips are wet when he pulls her up by the hair into a harsh kiss. Her scent is all over him, her scent and his combined. "You taste so good, Vic," he murmurs against her mouth.

Her head is spinning when he finally releases her ponytail to shove at the waistband of her shorts.

"Take them off," he commands.

Still on her knees, she pushes them down but has to stand up to step out of them. She's bent over, ass close to his face, and almost topples when he bites the underside of one cheek. With a growl he grabs her thighs and pulls her down so that her back is pressed against his chest. She can feel the hot length of his cock like a brand and she wriggles, trying to turn so she can straddle him. It's no use; he's got her firmly by the waist with one long arm. The other snakes between her legs, making her arch up to get more contact, to get his fingers inside her.

Somehow he shifts forward while pulling her back and she finds herself sinking down on his cock with dizzying pleasure. His thighs are splayed wide with hers hooked over the outside; her only leverage is digging her toes into his calves. He fucks up into her with short circles of his hips while his fingers work at her clit. She comes almost effortlessly, hands slapping at the leather of the couch, trying uselessly to anchor herself.

His hips keep moving steadily as he brings his slick fingers up to her mouth. He groans when she sucks on them greedily. She reaches down to feel his cock moving in and out of her, circling the base of his shaft with her fingers. When she rubs gently against his knot, his hips jerk up hard.

He yanks his fingers out of her mouth and grabs her chin, pulling her head around fast so that her lips crash into his. His tongue starts fucking her mouth to the rhythm of his cock fucking her cunt. She can't remember how to breathe. He drags his hand down from her chin and wraps it around her throat. There's no pressure, he's just holding her there, but it all feels overwhelming. His hand is so big and strong. His cock is so hot and thick. She's pinned in place, her arms hanging limply at her sides as if they don't even belong to her, going out of her mind.

He finally breaks the kiss, panting harshly, and her head lolls back against his shoulder. His fingers flex gently on her throat, not compressing, almost like a massage, and she doesn't know why but it makes her moan. He starts licking and nibbling at her ear, her neck; he sucks and kisses her skin, moving her head however he wants. She can't seem to do anything at all. He squeezes her tits with his whole hand, increasing the pressure until she cries out. Then he rubs and pinches her nipples to the point of pain.

It hurts and she's writhing on his cock, trying to get away from the stimulation, and only making it more intense. She's so wet and his hand's on her throat and she's making jagged sounds like sobs, she can hear herself, hear the filthy squelch of how wet she is every time he thrusts into her cunt. She can't move, can't do anything but let him do this, it's so good, and she lets him, and it's agony, and she lets him, lets him burn her alive. He presses down on her throat, just a little, just enough, and she comes in an explosive, molten rush.

He doesn't let her catch her breath at all; doesn't even slow down.

"Again," he says in her ear, over and over, as he takes her apart relentlessly, fucking her through one wracking orgasm after another until there's no separation between them, no beginning or end. She's dissolving inside them, pouring over, her cunt like a flood and a river of noise flowing out of her mouth.

Finally, finally, she feels him working his knot into her. Oh fuck it's so good, it's too much, she can't stand it, she needs more. He whispers praise in her ear, _such a good girl, feel so good, taking it so well._ She's ravished, floating, endless, until he bites that pressure point on her neck and everything shivers into bliss.

When his knot is fully inside her and her cunt ties down in grateful relief, Vic comes in a final shuddering gush so powerful she can't hold in her scream. Walt makes a deep, guttural sound and fucks up into her sharply three more times before she feels the hot surge as he comes, his big hand still wrapped securely around her throat.

[TBC]


	8. Chapter 8

_In their groundbreaking 2011 paper "The Stigma of O: Prevailing cultural narratives and their impacts on childhood self-perception in Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion Omega Type," psychologists Miller, Adamcyck, et al. performed a meta-analysis of treatments and admissions over a period of ten years at six major hospitals worldwide. Their findings revealed that young women with Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion Omega Type between the ages of 12 and 18 were 62% more likely to attempt some form of self-harm (including suicide) compared to their peers. The analysis also found markedly higher incidences of mood disorders, eating disorders, anxiety disorders, and low self-esteem in the Omega Type patients._

 _—Dr. Nisreen Waelsch,_ _ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion_

. . .

They barely manage to stagger into the bedroom once they untie. Vic is giggling in bright little hiccups of sound that make him think of sunshine.

She falls sideways onto the bed in a heap.

"We ruined your couch."

He follows her down.

The mattress underneath him and her sweaty skin stuck to his are the best things he's ever felt.

"It'll survive."

. . .

Even unconscious, his body is guided by instinct.

He's already rocking languidly inside her when he wakes. Everything feels warm and sweet in the way of dreams. Pleasure laps at him like gently foaming waves.

They could be shipwrecked on an island, all alone in a big green sea, with nothing but wilderness around them for miles. Just them and the sand, the water, and the sky.

Dazed with sleep, Walt opens his eyes long enough to register the darkness of the bedroom, the spill of moonlight through the windows, and Vic sprawled beneath him.

She's on her stomach, one bent knee pushed high to spread her thighs open. Her scent has spiked in the depths of sleep and it swirls in the air, holding him captive in her twisting, seeking need to mate. His muscles are sore and loose from exhaustion, but he gives himself over to the pleasure of slaking that need with a luxurious sigh. The beast inside him is slumberous too, content with this gentle slide, knowing it will be satisfied soon enough.

Vic is all soft pliancy, so slick and tight, gripping him in silky heat so deep it's endless; they're endless. Her scent is thick and heady in his nose, saturating him and urging him on.

He's so tired, his mind fogged and sluggish, but he doesn't want to sink back into the bottomless well of sleep. This is what he's made for, to fill her and take her and give her what she needs. She's everything and he's hers. He wants to give her everything.

Scattered images appear in the darkness behind his eyelids: pinning her down, his hand on her throat. How she'd trusted him so completely.

Pure, breathtaking lust swamps him.

Rocking a little faster now, he inches his hand underneath her belly and slides it down. His fingers delve in to stroke her hot, slippery flesh. She's so wet it's soaking into the sheet beneath her. He can't help pushing her knee higher to get even deeper, can't help the way his hips speed up even more.

A breathy whimper escapes her and it dawns on him that she's not moving with him, that she hasn't been all this time. Even in the darkness, when he opens his eyes he can see that her muscles are relaxed and her expression is calm. Her breathing is steady.

She's asleep.

She's asleep and he's inside her; he's moving inside her.

He can hardly believe the erotic thrill of it. She's spread out beneath him, so beautifully trusting and unaware. There's nothing to stop him from taking her like this until she wakes screaming in ecstasy on his knot.

Just the idea is almost unbearably exciting. He has to turn his face into the pillow to muffle his moan.

Some part of him says, _you shouldn't._

A more insistent part says, _she needs this._ It says, _her body knows, even if her conscious mind doesn't._

She needs this. She needs _him._

He slides his slick fingers along her labia to the apex of her sex. He catches her clit gently between his knuckles so that it's tugged lightly by the slightest movement.

Her lips part and her breathing quickens. Her hips begin rocking in tiny motions against his hand. Instinct is telling him to push harder, push deeper, knot her, but his sheer wonder at this incredible reality makes it easy to hold back.

He feels drunk with happiness; he could do this forever.

Then her eyes flutter open and she makes a soft sound like a question through her puffing breaths.

His heart stops. His entire body just stops.

"Walt?" she murmurs, her free arm sliding over the sheet.

Reaching for him, he realizes in shock when her hand makes contact with his arm.

He presses a soft kiss to her shoulder, whispering, "I'm here."

She hums. The slight tension on her face eases and her eyes close.

His mouth falls open.

He waits.

And waits.

Every muscle in his body is tensed to the point of pain, but she's asleep. His dick is throbbing inside her and _she's asleep_.

This is how much she trusts him.

It's staggering. He's awestruck.

And unimaginably aroused.

He tries to be gentle, tries not to just rut into her erratically, but his thrusts are still strong enough to push her slightly higher on the bed.

She continues to sleep.

He groans softly, dizzy and elated and catching fire. His fingers begin to stroke her clit to the tempo of his thrusts and her hips gradually take up the rhythm in counterpoint. It's astounding that she's so responsive, so wet and eager for him even while asleep. She's panting softly, her fingers twitching on his arm, and it's all so much, so good.

The small of her back flexes underneath his belly with every roll of her hips, pushing the lush curves of her backside against his groin. Head spinning, he fists his other hand in the pillow, struggling for the control to make this last.

Over the sound of his own harsh gasping, he almost doesn't hear her breath catch.

For a moment she's still and then, to his absolute amazement, he feels her sex tightening around him in rhythmic pulses.

She lets out a deep sigh.

He just brought her to orgasm while she slept.

A white phosphorus flash ignites inside him, erasing everything but animal lust. He thrusts into her hard enough to shake the headboard, his fingers working roughly at her clit.

Vic wakes on a low, hitching moan with her hand clamping down on his arm. Eyes wide open and staring, she climaxes in seconds, as though her body's just been waiting for her mind to catch up. She quakes underneath him, her sobbing gasps rising in time with the clenching of her sex.

It's even better than he'd imagined.

"So good," he hears himself chanting in a ragged voice, "so good, you're so good."

Her movements grow frenetic. Both her hands are fisted in the sheets as she gives herself over to him one more time.

"Please," she moans into the pillow. "Please, please, please..."

Pride fills him, wonder and pride, that this strong, beautiful, fierce woman trusts him to do this for her. He's grunting helplessly with every thrust, unable to hold back or deny her, not now when she's given him so much. His swelling knot is catching and rubbing at her entrance as he works her even harder. It feels so good he knows he can't last much longer. He can't last at all.

With a snap of his hips, his knot lodges snugly inside her. The explosion of pleasure lights up the dark of his brain. He hears Vic cry out, feels her bucking underneath him, but he's transfixed by the sharp spear of orgasm. All he can do is bury his face in her hair and shake.

Walt isn't sure if he passes out or if his knot shrinks very quickly this time. He's much too tired to care. Vic makes only a slight murmur and snuffle as he withdraws and shifts himself off her. The sheet is blissfully cool against his hot skin and his limbs are too heavy to move. He tells himself he just needs a minute before he cleans them both up. Just a minute and then he'll go get a towel.

Sleep swallows him and the minute, both.

[TBC]


	9. Chapter 9

_The erectile tissue of the Alpha Type genital bulb may respond in a limited way to manual stimulation; however, it requires the chemical stimulation of the estrus-specific aldehydes to fully erect. Bulb insertion is accomplished primarily through the application of pressure on the Cervicothoracic Locus found at the back of the Omega Type neck. Vaginal muscles respond directly to signals from this nerve bundle by retracting, thus allowing insertion of the genital bulb without damage to the surrounding tissues. Pressure applied to the Cervicothoracic Locus also increases dopamine production, leading to feelings ranging from deep relaxation to euphoria. Additionally, Alpha Type aldehydes promote the hyper-production of vaginal transudate, thereby ensuring sufficient lubrication._

 _—Dr. Nisreen Waelsch,_ _ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion_

. . .

When Vic surfaces groggily into wakefulness it's a toss-up as to what's more urgent: her thirst or her need to pee. She hauls herself out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom, squinting against the early morning light. Sitting on the toilet, she notices the dry, flaking mess on the insides of her thighs and suddenly remembers waking up in the middle of the night with Walt's cock inside her. He'd flung her so fast into orgasm she hadn't been able to get her bearings in the whirling dark. The whole thing had seemed like a lucid dream.

Now her body feels like it has an orgasm hangover. Every part of her is sore. Even her eyelids, even her big toes, feel achy and overworked. Turns out that coming uses a lot more muscles than she'd ever thought.

At the sink, she washes her hands and then gulps some water straight from the faucet. If only she'd remembered to pack her toothbrush, she could get the stale taste out of her mouth. Then again, she hadn't remembered to pack a lot of things yesterday, though it's not as if she'd really been thinking straight. Which is why she discovers she has two pairs of shorts left in her bag but nothing to wear with them, not even a bra, now that the single tank she did think to pack is lying on Walt's floor with come all over it, and the one she was wearing when she got here is nowhere to be seen.

Walking around his place naked makes Vic feel weird in spite of everything that's happened. In the corner of the bedroom she sees the shirt he'd been wearing at the hospital hanging over the back of the chair. She slips it on and closes a couple of the snaps. It's comically large on her—she has to roll the sleeves four times to find her own hands—but she likes the way it feels around her. Walt's scent is embedded in the fibers and she holds the collar to her nose for a few moments to breathe it in. Then she thinks about how ridiculous and girly she must look and hopes like hell he's not awake to see this.

A quick peek reveals he's not.

Vic makes her way to the kitchen and chugs a glass of orange juice then a glass of water. She pours another glass of water for herself and one for Walt before padding back into the bedroom. Her feet make sticky little sounds against the wooden floor.

For a moment she stands in the doorway and lets herself look at him sleeping. He's lying on his back, one arm curved above his head and one leg sticking out from beneath the sheet. A warm glow fills her at seeing him this way, so relaxed and untroubled. It makes the hell she's been through the last few days almost seem worth it.

The loud, screechy call of a bird jolts her out of her thoughts. Even though there's no one here to see it, it's embarrassing to just be standing around with a goofy smile on her face. Vic sets one glass down on the table at Walt's side and walks around to do the same with hers. Despite her best efforts, she's so clumsy with fatigue that it's impossible not to jostle the mattress when she climbs back into bed. He grunts a little and frowns, turning his head towards her. Poised on one elbow, she holds her breath, hoping he won't wake completely. She's not ready to face him yet.

When at least a minute goes by with no further sign he's awake, she releases a shaky breath and lies down on her side so that she can see his face. The hangover feeling in her head is mostly gone now that she's gotten some sugar into her system. In fact, her thinking is more clear than it's been in days. Her newly regained clarity is both a blessing and a curse.

The light coming through the windows is still fairly thin. There's probably frost on the ground outside, though it's warm enough in the cabin. Vic doesn't know what time they fell into bed last night but it had still been light out. It's just after 6.30 a.m. now, which means she's slept for at least twelve hours, not counting the brief awakening somewhere in the middle of the night. She doesn't think she's ever slept this much before, yet somehow she's still tired.

Her heat is definitely ending. Without it fogging up her brain, she studies Walt in a way she hasn't been able to so far. That primitive compulsion to be close to him is nowhere near as consuming as it was, but even without its influence she finds him so incredibly attractive. Resisting the biological pull is easy. Resisting the man is much, much harder.

 _I love you, Vic._

She believes that he believes it's the truth. But a cold, hard knot of dread weights the pit of her stomach because she doesn't believe in guarantees. There's every chance he'll wake this morning regretting yesterday's declarations. That knowledge is what's kept her from saying the words to him in return. Once she does she won't be able to take them back; she won't be able to pretend she doesn't mean them. Vic's not that good a liar.

So she's withheld this last tiny piece of her heart because she's not naive enough to think there won't be a price to pay. Nothing good has ever entered her life that didn't take more away as it left.

It won't be malicious or intentional; Walt won't mean to break her heart. He'll be gentle, she's sure. He'll still respect her at work, still be her sort-of friend, but he'll know, and it'll destroy her all the same. She'll feel the burn of that shame every day until this job finally kills her or she finds the strength to leave Absaroka—and him—behind.

Vic can't stop the inevitable or time; she just wants to put the future off for a little while longer. If that makes her a coward, well, she's been called worse.

. . .

Even without opening her eyes, she can tell the light's grown brighter. Her neck feels much stiffer than it did when she woke up the first time; just trying to turn it makes her wince. Vic decides it's easier to turn the rest of herself instead and rolls from her back onto her side.

The first thing she sees as she squints through her lashes is Walt's eyes looking back at her. He's very close, right on the edge of his pillow. They're just far enough apart for him not to be a blur when she blinks a few times to get used to the light.

"Morning," he says.

His whole face seems to be alight with the soft smile he's giving her. It's beautiful and unbearable and she doesn't know what to do. She's still not ready.

"Hi."

He reaches over and taps two of the snaps on her— _his_ —shirt. One finger slides into the gap and strokes a gentle line between her breasts, right over the hard shell that protects her heart. It's such a simple touch and it shouldn't be erotic, shouldn't make her blood rush this way, but he's watching her and she can't seem to catch her breath.

"I like your shirt," he says.

She looks down foolishly, as if she's forgotten what she's wearing. "Um, I didn't pack enough."

Walt smiles again. "It looks better on you anyway."

God, his eyes are so blue. This isn't going the way Vic had imagined it would and she feels utterly out of her depth.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, when his finger is hooked around one of the closed snaps, making the front of the shirt sag.

"Okay," she says automatically. At his doubtful expression, she tries again. "Tired. Sore."

"Yeah."

"I think it's almost over, though."

He leans in close to her neck and she freezes, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of him breathing deeply over her skin. He still smells so good. After a rumbling sort of hum he leans back. "I think you're right."

Her heart skitters like mad in her chest. She opens her eyes and finds his pupils are dilated; hers must be too. Someone moves first, she's not sure who, then his mouth is on hers and that's all that matters. His warm hand reaches in to cup her breast. His smooth cheek slides along her own.

"You shaved," she says with some surprise when his lips travel down to her neck.

"I scratched you up pretty bad yesterday." Walt touches the base of her throat so lightly she almost can't feel it. "Sorry about that."

None of it had really registered before, but now Vic can feel that the skin of her face is abraded and a little sore. She imagines it's about as red as her chest and her chapped lips.

"It's okay," she says.

He trails a gentle thumb across her collar bone. "I didn't want to make it any worse."

She melts into him like wax when his lips find their way back to hers. His hand is gently kneading her breast and his tongue is curling in her mouth and her brain just isn't working. But under her skin she can feel happiness rising to the surface like cream. Even though her heat is almost over, he'd woken up and wanted to kiss her again.

"God," she whispers when his palm brushes faintly across her nipple as he pulls his hand away. Both her nipples feel especially tender, almost painfully sensitive, and the light touch is enough to make them tighten into hard little peaks.

Walt opens the snaps on her shirt and bends his head to take that same nipple into his warm, wet mouth. He's so gentle, his tongue soft, but the sensations are sharper and more intense that Vic's used to. They lance straight to her clit in swift, hot pulses that make her cunt clench. She has to squeeze her thighs together and rock a little just to stay on top of the feeling. When he switches to her other nipple she's so close to orgasm that all he has to do is slide his fingers firmly against her mons and that's it; she's coming.

A slowly rolling wave of pleasure washes through her pelvis and radiates outward, down her thighs and up into her chest. It goes on for a long time, ebbing finally as she gradually regains control of her limbs. She licks her dry lips and starts to stretch with a satisfied little smile, only to freeze when something in her neck seems to snap back on itself like a rubber band.

"Fuck," she mutters, clamping her fingers down hard at the site of the pain.

"What is it?" Concern colors Walt's voice.

"My neck. I think I wrenched something yesterday and now it's kind of seized up." To prevent him from getting out the apology she can see on his face, she adds, "It's not a big deal, just a muscle strain. I've had plenty of them before."

"Do you think you can lie on your stomach?"

"I think that's part of what got me into this in the first place," she says with a smirk, delighted when he blushes slightly.

"If you rest your chin on your arms, that'll keep your head forward instead of stretched to one side."

"Okay, and why would I be doing this?"

He gives her a look as though it should be obvious. "Because I'm going to rub your back."

"Next time you should lead with that."

Vic sits up with some difficulty and he helps her ease the shirt off. While Walt heads to the bathroom, she does a slow and extremely ungraceful full-body rotation to get herself on her stomach. She's only just made down it when he returns. He climbs back into bed and straddles her, resting some of his weight on the backs of her thighs.

Something rich and spicy scents the air as she hears a bottle being uncapped. The liquid he spreads over her neck and upper back is warm; it almost feels like oil but not as smooth.

"That smells really good," she says. "What is it?"

"Muscle liniment," he says, his palms starting to make wide sweeps outwards from her spine. "It'll help relieve the pain and reduce inflammation."

His hands stretch across each of her shoulders and then pass incrementally down her back. There's barely any pressure, but the touch feels soothing. Vic closes her eyes. He switches to pressing gently along her vertebrae, working up until he reaches the base of her skull, where his fingers splay out to curve under her jaw. Strangely enough, she feels her ears pop.

"Thanks for the glass of water," Walt says quietly, bringing his hands back to her shoulders.

"You're welcome," she says in a dreamy voice that definitely doesn't sound like her. But her entire upper body is tingling and her head has started to float. "If you ever consider a career change," she mumbles, "I will definitely be a reference."

He huffs a tiny laugh. "I'll keep that in mind."

Things grow less pleasant when he starts to really work at her neck. Vic can't help flinching whenever his fingers dig into a particularly sore spot, of which there are more than she realized. He traces the pain from her neck all the way down to its source underneath her shoulder blade. It's so tender when he presses there that she lets out a tiny involuntary squeak.

"That's the spot."

"Shit," she breathes. "Wasn't expecting that."

Walt's doing his best to be gentle, but it really does hurt. She needs a distraction.

"Did your wife know? About you having Lýkos, I mean." It's something she's been wondering since this began.

"Yeah, she knew."

Vic hisses at another hot flare of pain. "Were you guys worried about passing it on to your kids?"

"We talked about it, but the risk was so low that I don't think it even seemed like a real possibility to us then." After a moment he asks, "Did, uh, Sean know?"

"No. I've never told anybody. I mean my parents know, obviously, but no one else in my family. Apart from them, a couple of priests and a few doctors are the only other people who know." She pauses, then adds, "And now you."

Walt's hands stop moving but he doesn't pull away. She feels him leaning forward along her back and then he presses his lips against her bicep in a tender kiss.

For some reason the gesture makes her eyes sting.

His hands resume their digging, smoothing, kneading rhythm and Vic finds herself speaking as if he's pushing the words out from under her skin.

"Sean knew I didn't want kids and he knew I'd had the surgery. He just didn't know the reason why. I probably should've told him all of it, but... it's something I've never talked about with anyone except doctors. I've spent my whole life trying to forget I even have it. I guess I just wanted to keep pretending I was normal."

"You are normal, Vic."

She makes a disparaging noise. "Our current situation says otherwise."

"A different variation of normal, then."

It sounds so reasonable when he says it, as if it could be that easy out there in the real world. For him, maybe it is. But—

"It's not that simple, Walt. My parents kept it a secret because they were afraid of what might happen to me if people found out. No matter what anybody says, omegas get treated differently. Maybe we're not burned at the stake or thrown into institutions anymore, but there are still people who think it's not really rape if it's an omega. There are still places in the world where killing people like me is policy, even if we're children."

Vic can hear the edge that's crept into her voice. Her heart rate's picked up and her hands are curled into fists she doesn't remember forming.

"Imagine growing up knowing that," she goes on. "Imagine growing up being angry and ashamed about who you are. When I started going through puberty there were nights I couldn't sleep because I was so terrified the meds would fail and I'd wake up a mindless slut. I lived every day in fear that someone would find out what I was. At school, at work, even with my friends. Every day. There were times I just wanted to die and get it over with."

Walt's hands stop abruptly and she can feel the rigid tension in his body against hers. Finally, he says, "I had no idea."

She blows out a deep breath, wishing she could see his face. "This isn't meant to be a pity party, all right? I just... I want you to understand. No matter how low the risk of me popping out a Lýkos kid is, it's still too high. I will never, ever condemn another little girl to what I went through."

A few long moments pass, then he shifts himself over to lie down at her side. Cautiously, Vic turns her head enough to see him. Her neck is still a little sore but nowhere near as painful as it was. Walt reaches out to slide her hair off her shoulder.

"Any better?" he asks.

"Yeah." She offers him a smile. "Thanks."

His expression is too hard for her to read but the way his thumb is sweeping slowly across the nape of her neck feels like comfort.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"I know."

He studies her a little longer, then says, "I should go wash my hands."

While he's gone, Vic rolls back onto her side and pulls the sheet up, feeling very exposed after all that soul-baring. Walt always seems to have that effect on her, though; she keeps finding herself revealing things to him she'd never think of showing someone else.

The sound of water in the bathroom shuts off and then the door opens. As he passes by her and rounds the other side of the bed she catches a glimpse of his back and sits up, startled.

"Holy shit, did I do that?"

"Do what?" he asks, looking bewildered.

She gets up on her knees. "Turn around."

He presents her with his back. Crisscrossed over his shoulders and upper back are a number of long red welts. None appear to have broken the skin, at least not enough to leave scabs, but they were obviously made with enough force to do some damage. A few small blotchy bruises have risen around them.

"Jesus." Vic touches him gingerly. "Does this hurt?"

"No."

"I guess it's a good thing I don't have long nails. I'm really sorry," she adds when he turns to face her.

"Don't worry about it."

The smile that dawns on Walt's face is definitely not that of a wounded man. He gives her a slow up and down glance that vividly reminds her she's completely naked. On his bed.

The mood shifts so quickly it leaves her stomach behind.

He settles one knee on the mattress. She sits down on her heels. He leans forward and cages her between his arms. She lets herself fall back until her elbows hold her up. He lifts his other knee onto the bed and walks his arms up along each side of her body. She unfolds her legs between his and stretches out flat on the mattress. He straddles her.

The slow, erotic dance is all eye contact and the absence of touch. By the time it's over, her blood drums hotly in her veins.

Walt strokes his thumb over her cheek and looks at her mouth. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," she says, looking at his. "Better. You?"

"Yeah."

It doesn't make any sense but she doesn't care because he's already kissing her.

He eases himself down until they're skin-to-skin everywhere except for the soft cotton barrier of his boxers. The compulsion of the last day has faded and every movement feels unhurried. She wants to lie here and just kiss him for hours.

Then he lifts himself a little and slides one thigh between hers, nudging her legs apart and settling between them. She hums in pleasure as the hard length of his cock rocks against her pelvis. Maybe she doesn't want to _just_ kiss him right now.

They writhe slowly together with gentle, indolent friction. Vic finds herself smiling between kisses, touching his face and his hair with a sense of incredulous wonder. She doesn't have a name for the way he's looking at her but it makes her heart stumble and then go on even faster than before each time she opens her eyes. There's so much light in the room and she'd swear that some of it was actually coming from him. It doesn't burn her like the sun, but glows with a warm welcome like a lamp shining through a window on a dark night.

Walt slides down her body, kissing a tender trail as he goes. She keeps one hand in his thick, soft hair and one on his shoulder, loving the way he feels everywhere against her, all of his textures. When he gets down between her thighs, he spreads them open and then just looks her in the eye for a long moment. His head lowers and lowers until she can feel his hot breath against her cunt and still he's looking at her, making her squirm with his focus.

His tongue licks a long stripe from her entrance to her clit and she doesn't even try to stop her moan. He makes a deep, low sound with his mouth still pressed against her and the vibration makes her gasp. Then he buries his face in her cunt, licking and sucking at her with his soft lips and supple tongue. She's rocking up into him because she can't help it, the hand on his shoulder digging in hard.

Her orgasm builds in a slow coil she can almost see behind her tightly shut eyelids, inching higher with his every slick pass of his tongue. She's gulping air, exhaling desperate sounds, and it's going to go on forever she knows it; she's trapped in this spiral with no way out, going around and around and tighter and tighter but never—

He reaches up and twines their fingers and somehow it's that — him holding her hand while he eats her out — that makes her come.

He stays with her, slowing down but not stopping. It doesn't take long before she's coming again, weaker this time, as if her exhausted body just doesn't have anything left. When he crawls back up to kiss her, Vic's thoroughly wrung out, just a puddle on the bed.

They kiss lazily for a while, Walt's cock pressed insistently between them. Finally she snaps the elastic waist on his boxers. "These need to go."

"I don't want to hurt you."

Given how sore she is everywhere, he might, but she doesn't care. She just wants him.

"You won't."

When his boxers are on the floor and he settles on top of her, it feels new, as if they've never done this before. Maybe, in a way, they haven't. Vic thinks of the last time they fucked looking into each other's eyes, of everything they'd said. He pushes inside her slowly, and, yes, it hurts a little, but the pain is incidental. It's just them now, aware and mindful.

He begins to move within her, dropping soft kisses on her neck, her face. Something is bursting inside her like knowledge, but it's deeper than that. It's recognition. It's certainty. She understands now what he'd tried to tell her before. He's in her thrall as much as she's in his; they're equally bound to each other.

She trails her fingers over his jaw and across his lips. "I love you, Walt."

He makes a choked sound and freezes in place.

She rocks up into him as much as his weight will let her. "You're mine."

"Yes," he whispers as his hips take up her rhythm and grind into her.

She reaches down to grab his ass and pull him in even tighter. "You belong to me."

With a desperate, wrecked noise, he thrusts faster, harder. They moan together as his knot rubs and rubs against her entrance. He tucks his face into the curve of her neck, painting her shoulder with his hot breath.

She wraps her legs around him and squeezes down on his cock. "Say it."

"I belong to you," he says in a rush, and slams into her hard, gloriously hard, the muscles in his back and ass bunching and straining with effort.

Her head's swimming and he's moaning against her neck and she hears herself panting, "oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," and then her cunt tightens viciously as his knot rams home. She comes with a ragged wail, splinters of pleasure flung through her like light shattering in a prism.

Stunned, she lies there, trying to get enough air.

Walt's back is heaving as he breathes. She strokes his sweaty skin and combs through the damp hair on his neck. This part is different too; it's so much better. Vic's alone inside her skin. She doesn't miss the euphoria at all.

Even the knotting is different. There's a pang of something like sadness inside her at the thought that this might be the last time. Already she can feel the pressure inside her lessening as his knot begins to shrink.

Vic presses her lips to Walt's temple. His breathing is evening out, washing smoothly over her neck and collar bone. He lifts his head and pushes himself up onto his elbows, and she can suddenly breathe freely. Her lungs seem to suck in the air and her exhale comes out sounding like a laugh.

"Sorry," he says.

She only shakes her head and leans up to kiss him softly. The hint of a smile lingers at the corners of his mouth when she pulls away. He begins winding a piece of her hair absently around his finger.

"I need to say something to you."

Her stomach rolls over in an instinctive fear response. "Okay."

Walt studies her intently, one thumb stroking the sensitive skin below her ear. "I don't want to go back to the way things were between us before, Vic. I want this. I want you."

She feels herself smiling and biting her lip and nodding all at the same time. "Me too."

His eyes close and he sighs as though he's relieved, as though he'd actually been in doubt. Vic wraps her arms more tightly around his back and he lets her pull him down and cradle him.

"I want this," she echoes softly. "I want you."

. . .

 _and I am the hunger and the assuagement,_  
 _and also I am the leaves and the blossoms,_  
 _and, like them, I am full of delight, and shaking._

 _Mary Oliver, Summer Story_

 _(from the final page of_ _ABOmination: A Natural History of Lýkos Chromosomal Inversion_ _by Dr. Nisreen Waelsch)_

[END]


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